The Real Don Juan Triumphant
by BleedingHeartConservative
Summary: **COMPLETE** NOW POSTING DELETED SCENES & BLOOPERS just for fun. Summary: Erik IS a bit of a Don Juan you know... What REALLY happened, as told by the Persian. Pairings: Erik/EVERYONE literally! . Rated "T" for sex. "M" chapters posted separately.
1. Introduction

**Dedication:** This story in its entirety is dedicated to Larysa, who, once upon a time long ago, believed that everyone was as honest as she (even _men_) and thus inspired this tale.

PS (no offense to any men reading. I didn't mean to sound misanthropic or anything... I'm actually referring only to one man in particular.)

**Disclaimer:** Like, duh! I totally don't own the Phantom of the Opera and stuff. I DO own three copies of the original novel by Gaston Leroux (one in French! Thanks KeyKlee!) and it is on THAT which my Erik is based, not on... well... all the other versions. In this particular version you may feel that Erik is a bit out of character but... well... maybe it's Leroux who had him out of character....

**Author's Note:** My, it HAS been a long time, hasn't it, friends? I can't believe I have gone THIS long without posting! Of course, I haven't gone without WRITING, but my other long project can't be posted in the order in which I'm writing it, so in the meantime I can share only one-shots and other small stuff. About two weeks ago I promised a few of you I was going to post something and then I didn't. This ISN'T the piece I promised back then. I'm still working on the edits for THAT one. This is something that hit me yesterday in the shower and set me giggling so I had to put it down. This is only the first 1000 words. I know 1000 words is rather short for a post, but as my time is severely limited by my employment and family at the moment, perhaps if I post this 1000 words at a time, I can still post often enough to keep a few of you interested, I hope.

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And now... The _Real_ Don Juan Triumphant

Ah, Erik. How does one begin to describe Erik? Does one begin with his deathly face, his emaciated body, his corpse-like hands? Or shall I tell you first about the brilliance of his mind, a mind which easily grasped all the nuances of Persian, Russian and Hindi in addition to our native French and the Greek, Latin, and Italian we were required to learn, a mind which possessed so great an understanding of music that he could compose songs that moved our mothers to tears long before we were men? Or shall I tell you first of his romantic prowess, his relentless driving urge to woo and conquer nearly every woman he encountered from the plain to the magnificent, from the lowest of the poor to women so far beyond our reach that most men could not have dreamed it in their wildest fantasies? Where to begin is the difficulty for there is so much to tell, and all of it inextricably linked to all else so that where to begin might also be the best place to end. The tale of Erik is a length of rope so tangled that I might reach in and grasp any strand and find that as good a place to begin as any.

No doubt you will want to know about the Daaé girl as that story has been widely popularized, due in part to the lies I told when the young journalist came to question me. It is likely that you may also wish to hear how Erik really looked, how his voice really sounded, whether he really possessed all the talents the young journalist who wrote about him claimed he did. Regarding those talents, I say all those and more. To the sound of his voice and his physical appearance, I simply say that Christine Daaé did not lie, nor did Raoul le Vicomte de Chagny, nor did the late Joseph Buquet, whom, I should admit outright, neither Erik nor I killed. Blaming Erik allowed his family to have a normal funeral which would not have been possible had he been officially declared a suicide.

How Erik came to look as he did I never asked him, despite my many ample opportunities. Having always been a bit shy, I could not bring myself to ask the question, even as he openly joked and all but invited me to do so. All the same, I rather suppose he has always looked that way. No one in his family ever spoke of an unfortunate accident nor implied that he had ever looked any different before, nor treated him as though he were anything unusual at all. Whether Erik's unusual appearance had anything at all to do with Erik's actions would be pure speculation and rather useless as no one seemed to have the power to do anything about either one.

As I said, we might as well begin anywhere, so let us begin at the Opera. It is true that I hid in a storage room and listened when Erik gave Christine Daaé the first of their lessons, but I was not there to spy on Erik as I have previously suggested, oh no. I was there predominantly in an attempt to win a bet. Yes. A bet. It was childish, I admit. We were grown men and had been for quite some time by the time we caroused at the Paris Opera, but I suppose we were (and still are) boys at heart. Erik was boasting about his prowess when I suggested he was playing too heavily upon sympathy, that he had only one bag of tricks, which he used repeatedly. His eyes narrowed at me and I knew instantly that something would come of it, for one does not challenge Erik without result.

"Sympathy!" Erik burst out in response, and I verbally backed away.

"You _do_ use your tears and self-loathing routine a bit often," I commented.

He lifted his chin. "Only because it is the routine that works most quickly," he said icily. He assumed the posture of an emperor. "Erik doesn't like to wait."

I snorted and he turned to me once again.

"What was _that_ sound supposed to mean?" His voice was full of anger, but I had no fear at all. Erik should have been an actor (I daresay he might have been had it not been for his strange appearance) and is always on stage. He might have been a bit disturbed at my comment, but his reactions were always exaggerated and this time was no different. He stood very close, towering over me (I have always been short of stature) and looking down at me through narrowed slits.

"Stop," I said. I put my hand on his bony chest and gave him a gentle shove. Erik has no concept of personal space. "Erik doesn't like to wait," I mocked. "I don't think you're _capable_ of waiting. I'm not sure you know the _meaning_ of the word wait."

If he'd had a nose he'd have looked down it at me then. He seemed to gather himself together and he stood up very tall and looked down at me and said with all the dignity he could muster, "I am perfectly capable of waiting when it suits me. I merely _choose_ not to." He met my eyes until I almost believed him. Then he added, "I certainly don't need the crying routine. I could woo a woman from a distance without her so much as seeing me." He paused and I could tell from his strange expression that his mind gamboled about in a pasture of fantasy. His voice grew more grandiose. "I could drive a woman to ecstasy without ever laying a hand upon her!"

I snorted again. "When has there ever been a woman upon whom you haven't laid a hand?" I retorted.

He acquiesced some. "Yes," he said, smiling. "Perhaps you _do_ have a point there." He sighed happily. "But I _could_ do it. If I wanted to." And here he closed his eyes and his smile spread wider.

I remained silent then, letting him fantasize. Erik's fantasies have sometimes led to our greatest exploits, so I left him alone with his thoughts. Perhaps I shouldn't have, for ultimately, it was this conversation that led to the mess that ensued with the little Daaé girl.

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(Naturally, it's to be continued, if you're interested.)

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**My Trademark:** Please review. It takes only a moment and means the world, you know! I'm working on the next bit of this already, so if folks are interested, I'll try to post again pretty soon. Thanks in advance.


	2. A brief history

**Author's Note****:** Hello. Fair warning--this chapter is not QUITE as amusing as the one that comes before it, though I did try. Worry not. This is just a brief history. I promise it will all come together later. Also, this is just the next 1500 words or so. I'd much prefer to post more, but my time is far more limited than it was during this time of year last year. I should also warn you that while I previously had expected to have my summer off, I now may not. However it turns out, though, I'll finish this piece anyway, because I started it. I always finish what I start.

**Disclaimer****:** All I own is my overactive imagination, but that's enough.

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Several years before our Opera exploit, Erik had acquired a small inheritance from the childless brother of his mother, but as it was not a large enough sum on which to live as he wished for the remainder of his life, he had also taken a job at the Opera. After hours, mind you. Though he was never actually as reclusive as I previously suggested when interviewed by that strange young journalist, as we got older Erik became somewhat more conscious of the peculiarity of his features and sought to modify or hide them in one way or another. Autumn of 1875 found us spending most of Erik's salary each month on extravagant hats and cloaks. In the end, though, such items don't truly cover one's face, so in a mixture of desperation and depravity, near the end of that year we turned to papier mậché.

I imagine one might expect that such an endeavor would fail miserably, but the truth is one can sculpt rather a nicely shaped nose from such a substance for a cost of almost nothing. We made quite a variety. Long noses, delicate noses, narrow noses, wide noses, and once in a fit of drunkenness, an extraordinarily long nose that would left Cyrano feeling small and insecure by comparison. Morning brought sobriety, however, and when we recovered from the headache and nausea that was our punishment for such debauchery, Erik called the thing ridiculous and threw it at me in mock anger vowing he would "never wear such a preposterous contraption while living and breathing." I expected him to be as good as his word, but apparently there truly _is_ a time and a place for everything, including enhancing the nose and _apparently_ the tastes of women are as varied as the women themselves (and some actually find a long misshapen nose... well... _arousing_).

Whatever the case, Erik had quite a collection of noses and by varying them and the type of moustache he wore beneath them (and fashioning eyebrows to match said moustache) he created such a vast number of identities that I was oddly jealous that my own nose was permanently fixed to my face offering me no real means of disguise.

I seem to remember that when we first started the papier mậché project Erik planned to find his preferred size and shape and then have a proper prosthetic nose fashioned. Why he hadn't done so by the time of Christine Daaé I can only speculate, but I suspect that like a woman with too many pairs of shoes, he simply couldn't make a permanent commitment to one style. Whatever the case, one of our lovely creations combined with a moustache he fashioned of trimmings from his own natural hair and worn daily eventually allowed him to work openly at the Opera—with the scene-shifters. It was in this way that we made the acquaintance of the now late Joseph Buquet. Rather, I should say it is in this way that Erik made his acquaintance. I met him some time later when Erik invited him to our flat for drinks.

While Erik was working at the Opera, I myself was unemployed and, without the inheritance of a childless uncle, struggling. It was during those lean years that I came to realize what I had hoped all along—that Erik truly was my friend, for he frequently offered me a job assisting him in one thing or another and occasionally lent me a few francs and subsequently forgot the debt.

By the time of Christine Daaé, Erik and I, together with my brother Darius, had rented a small flat on Rue de Rivoli across from the Tulieres. It was far from elegant, quite a bit beneath Erik's means (yet still above mine). Together, however, we found it worked for the three of us. Darius and I benefited from Erik's generous nature while Erik, who plainly stated that a nicer place would have left him far less spending money, seemed to enjoy our company. It left us within walking distance from Erik's greatest love, the Paris Opera.

That's not to say he didn't love the ladies. Surely, he loved each and every one of them. It is not my intention merely to defend a friend; I do believe Erik loved each of the ladies so much that he could not possibly abandon any of them to commit to any other. A commitment to one would have meant forsaking all the others. There were other men in Paris, yes, but once a woman has had Erik....

Suffice to say that the little Daaé girl was not the first to fall prey to Erik's charms by any means. Nor was she the prettiest, the most well-known, or the wealthiest. She was young, yes—a mere eighteen—but she was not the youngest. She was not the most talented, the most naive, the most eager, or the most lonesome. As much as it may surprise you to hear it, Christine Daaé was merely one of the ladies Erik happened to encounter along the way.

That is not to say that she was not special; she most certainly was. She was quite a lovely girl, and an honest girl. She retains a special place in my own heart for she somehow overcame her loathing of Erik's appearance before he taught her true pleasure rather than after (unless he deceived me). But I do not deny that she was special to Erik. Of course she was special. Just like every other girl.

Would that I could chronicle them all for you here and tell you the singular splendor of each in the order in which they came! But such a task is daunting, if even possible, and do not delude myself to believing that I was present for all of Erik's many exploits.

Erik and I grew up together and I recall his regaling the assets of women far before I knew the names of those parts or their purpose. When Erik first described to me the wonder of the unclothed female form, I was more than certain it would be a decade before I might behold such a sight with my own two eyes, and so I lived vicariously through Erik's tales. We were around sixteen years of age at that time, and Erik was as debonair then as he is today. I was clumsy as well as shy, but I watched him, admired him, _studied_ him for I was certain that if I ever I was going to persuade one of them to lie with me, it would be by following Erik's example.

I was not an unattractive young man by any means. My mother always said that all I needed was a little confidence, and surely it is true. All it takes to confirm this is a glance at Erik. Even as a boy he was skinny as a pike, emaciated with protruding ribs, lanky legs and arms like cooked pasta. His face was as distorted as his body was scrawny. Aside from the gaping hole in the center of his face, his teeth were crooked, his cheeks hollow, his skin a strange shade of transparent yellow, his hair thin and patchy and his straddling eyebrows thick and bushy by comparison. If poise were related to comeliness, Erik should have had none at all; instead, his were inversely proportionate.

He walked with a swagger, stood with his shoulders thrown back, dressed impeccably. The grace with which he withdrew his gloves or wrapped his cloak about his shoulders lured the eyes of the ladies to him. Though they often grimaced—shuddered even—at a first glance at his face, his refined air drew them back again in curiosity. At a second glance he had them captivated with a crooked smile. He might speak a word to them then in a soft melodious tone he reserved for this alone, but only a word. With a tip of his hat he would be gone, sauntering away to leave them burning with a strange interest in his seeming disinterest of them, infatuated. Erik worked months in advance; a seed of attraction might be planted in the spring to be harvested in the fall, watered with indifference and apathy, fertilized by pride.

By the time I had begun to formally study Erik I had looked at his anomalous face for so long that it was commonplace to me. When my mother commented that she found it peculiar to hear the name of my unfortunate friend on the lips of all the young ladies, I wondered who she meant, for I could not begin to imagine that anyone would consider Erik unfortunate or conceive that anyone might be surprised that the ladies found him appealing. In the meantime, I worked up the courage to ask Erik to teach me some of what he knew, and as a good friend does, he obliged.

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**My trademark:** Please leave a review. I need all the encouragement I can get this week.


	3. Joseph Buquet

**Author's Note:** I have added "humor" as a category finally, despite my not feeling like I really have the humor genre mastered.

**Disclaimer:** I own three stuffed Eriks, a CD recording of the original cast, two copies of the novel in English, one copy of the novel in French (thanks Keyklee!) and a whole lot of fanfiction plots. I do not, however, own the rights to _The Phantom of the Opera_, and no amount of wishing will ever make it so.

All my Eriks so far are Leroux-based, but this one has some unusual habits...

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It is not difficult at all for me to imagine how Erik managed to commandeer box five for our exclusive use. I had been watching Erik manipulate minds far more sophisticated than those of Debienne and Poligy for some twenty years, for he was controlling the minds of others with his ingenious schemes long before we were old enough to call ourselves men. My only surprise regarding the matter of the "Opera ghost" and box five was that Erik put to use a friend other than myself in assisting him. I admit that it made me feel disposable; I was hurt.

"But you don't work at the Opera," Erik said by way of explanation, then instantly regretted having pointed out my (by that time chronic) unemployment. "He's well-respected," he tried to explain and stopped, having put his foot in his mouth yet again. "Never mind. You're far too honest. You would have felt guilty for months and I would have known not at all what to do with you." I acquiesced some. "You _know _how you get," he insisted.

It was perhaps to assuage my fears that I was losing my best friend to the chief scene-shifter that Erik brought Joseph Buquet to the flat for drinks. If that was indeed his goal, this, too, was brilliance on Erik's part. He spent no time attempting to convince me of the value of our friendship but instead simply brought the man home and expected me to accept him. It worked, too, for in an instant I knew that he could never replace me.

Older than any of us, Joseph was serious and sober—at least, until Darius and I plied him with drinks—and had a sullen, downtrodden air about him. In the kitchen Erik whispered confidentially to me that his coworker's financial state was rather worse than my own; in addition his wife had made a cuckold of him. I was immediately moved to pity without realizing (as I now do) that Erik cultivated _that feeling in particular_ especially for his purposes and that I was no more of my own mind than any of the women who turned to clay in his bony but adept hands. By the time Erik finished his description of his new older friend's condition and hissed, "We must show him a very good time this evening," in my ear, "for he has so few things about which to smile," I was as pliable in his hands as the papier mậché had been when he sculpted the nose he wore as he uttered the words.

"Absolutely, Erik," I said, quickly getting glasses and bottles and signalling my brother to bring more.

Joseph never confirmed what Erik whispered in my ear that night, but I had no reason to doubt the truth of Erik's words. The chief scene-shifter appeared weary with life, browbeaten, and miserable.

I would be lying if I said it didn't affect me. It was difficult to make light of life that night in the presence of one whose life seemed so dark. Erik made up for my sullenness, however by displaying a new skill he'd acquired Lord-knows-where. Somehow, he had learned to speak without moving his lips. Without the benefit of a ventriloquist's dummy, he fell to making everything from the figurine on the mantle to the bottle of rum on the table speak."Drink me!" the golden liquid screeched from our glasses, and we obeyed.

Several glasses later I was brave enough to ask Joseph how he and Erik managed the acquisition of box five. He looked at Erik in surprise for an instant but relaxed slightly as Erik waggled his bushy eyebrows and waved a hand at me to indicate my harmlessness. Buquet eyed me suspiciously a moment longer, then painfully relayed the details of how he and Erik had taken turns covering each other's work behind and below the stage while the other spied on Debienne or Poligny, or both, until they had enough information with which to sufficiently blackmail them. Erik then hid in box five while Buquet arranged for Poligny to enter the box so Erik could speak to him as a disembodied voice, omnicient about his many affairs and his partner's excessive debt.

"It was then that I knew I must learn ventriloquism," Erik pointed out abruptly. "I cannot spend my entire life hiding behind a wall, can I?"

"Of course not," a voice boomed, seemingly from behind the wall, and Darius jumped and turned to look at the place from whence it came, a detail Erik found so amusing he was rendered incapable of speech with or without the use of his lips for quite some time.

"If I had learned that only a bit sooner," he said at last after a gasping breath, "I should have been able to see the look on his face when I asked him for twenty-thousand francs!" Here he punched Buquet in the shoulder and roared with laughter.

"I should have liked to have seen that," Buquet added throwing a meaningful glance back at Erik.

I wondered for only an instant what had happened to the twenty-thousand francs. An instant later I recognized the look in Buquet's eyes as gratitude and I felt my heart swell with pride at the depth of my friend's generosity. Despite my intoxication, however, my shy nature won out and I could not bring myself to tell him.

Meanwhile, the two were bragging about other exploits. Erik had given Buquet a description of what he called "the Opera ghost," which Buquet was to report having seen to the managers. Buquet recounted the description and I frowned deeply at Erik through the haze of alcohol. Erik's "ghost" looked exactly like himself, which I felt could be dangerous should he ever have some mishap with his nose and moustache. Joseph, however, seemed not to have made the connection, so I concluded that he had not seen Erik without his precious Erik-as-a-sceneshifter nose; I knew, then, that it would be unwise to comment upon it in his presence. I bit my tongue and planned to address it later, but one thing led to another and before I had managed a word with Erik about it, the gossip around the arrondissement was that the Opera was haunted by a ghost with a noseless head that appeared to be merely a skull with a few long dark locks of hair.

"Relax," Erik told me when too late, I expressed concern. "Think of the fun we shall have with ten-thousand spare francs a month!" he said excitedly. I frowned at him, and he put his hands out as if to calm me. "You'll feel better after an evening out," he suggested. "Who are you seeing now? Send word that you're taking her to the Opera. Have you any desire to see _Sigurd_? You shall tonight, then, at my expense." He paused and looked at me meaningfully. "I have a private box, you know," he said very properly with a dignified look. Then he nearly fell from his chair as he roared with laughter.

I tried to glare at him, but it would have been impossible to stay angry with Erik for more than an instant, even if I had the means to afford to abandon him.

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**Shameless Begging:** Life has kicked my butt sufficiently less this week than last, so I am updating on Friday evening, a bit earlier than usual. I've gotten just a BIT ahead and so I MIGHT be able to post another 1000 words or so Sunday if it looks like a lot of people have already read this bit. I have to edit the next bit first and see where the next decent point to put in a break will be, but I'll try. In the meantime, why not take a moment to leave me a lovely review and let me know if you see any glaring typos or have any ideas for things I should be adding in. You know how I LOVE the comments, right?


	4. Beneath the Opera

**Author's Note:** Well, here is is, not even officially Sunday yet, and I'm publishing my bonus post. I thought about holding out a little longer, and then I decided that you all were so nice in having left kind and encouraging reviews that you totally deserved a bonus without all the suspense and anticipation. Not that this little chappy get us anything more than perhaps some more mild amusement. I apologize if this bit doesn't do much to advance the plot, but I had such fun writing it. Oh yes... and a warning! I wrote something last night that, while not lewd or anything, made me wonder if at some point this might need to change from "T" to "M" rating. It was all merely suggestive, not outright or blatant or anything, but it was most explicit than I have written before, so I wanted to just throw this out there and say that if I hit "M" level and don't change my rating, wil one of you please remind me to do so? Thanks in advance. Oh yes... and that one little item that wasn't patented until 1903 in America... well, whose to say that Erik didn't discover it sooner and simply fail to patent it (or deliberately refrain from sharing it with the rest of the world until someone else made this same discovery? After all, in fiction, anything is possible, yes?)

**Disclaimer:** Let's not be silly. No one could truly claim ownership of Erik, could they?

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Erik's new friend was working that night—as was Erik, officially, but the two had such an efficient system that one could easily do the work of two and had decided to take turns so each could have an opportunity to use the box—and it was Erik's turn to use the box.

Darius and I allowed ourselves to be led us from Rue Scribe to a dark hole through which Erik insisted we crawl. When Darius complained that he'd rather enter through the door, Erik suggested he might not enjoy exiting through it immediately thereafter. I kept my mouth shut. There was surely no way to get from the grand escalier to the box without paid seats. I myself didn't know how to get from our present position to the box either, but I had known Erik long enough to trust that he did, and that was enough for me. I threw my brother a silencing look and crawled on as Erik directed.

Fortunately the crawling, though grueling, was minimal. After scuttling along on our knees and elbows down a dark corridor we found ourselves in a high-ceilinged chamber that reminded me of the catacombs and made me shudder. Erik hurried us along before I could investigate the area thoroughly enough to be completely unnerved by it, however.

"This way," he insisted turning me by the shoulders to point me toward a dimly lit stone staircase. I threw a look behind me at my younger brother who followed me as confidently as I followed Erik. We traveled in this manner down several levels while in my mind I reasoned through it. Apparently, Erik moved us below the levels of activity, then over to directly beneath where we needed to be before guiding us upward once again. I wondered aloud that we didn't get lost.

"A very simple system," Erik commented, gesturing at the ceiling. "Follow the lines." I glanced upward to a dark streak in the stone above my head. "Every line leads somewhere." With that he turned and in his dark opera clothes, disappeared into the darkness ahead of us. I fairly ran after him.

At length we reached a large open area and Erik slowed his pace to give us the equivalent of a tour guide's lecture as we traveled. I listened politely but absentmindedly; of what use to me was knowing the quickest route to the stables or where unused scenery and set pieces are stored? I snapped to attention, though, when Erik pointed out to what appeared to be a large ordinary mirror. It wasn't the mirror that stopped me but the sudden change in his tone of voice. "I have great plans for those," he said with majestic sweep of his hand toward the mirror. I peered more carefully into the darkness. It was, as a matter of fact, a number of mirrors, leaned one upon the other with pieces dark fabric between them. Erik had great plans for everything, but when he spoke in _that tone_, I always listened. It was the same wanton tone he used when he invited me on one of his escapades. By now my body was so tuned to associating that tone with an amorous encounter that I found myself aroused as soon as my ears recognized it. But this time Erik was speaking not of ladies but of _mirrors_.

I grabbed him by the elbow and stopped instantly. "What sort of plans?" I demanded.

His eyes reflected the dim golden light of the passageway as he grinned at me. "I've cut a hole in the wall of the dancers' dressing room," he said. He waited for me to digest this information. I wondered silently at this. A hole in the dancers' wall would be noticed immediately and repaired, wouldn't it? "Behind their mirror," he added, still grinning. I shook my head in confusion. A hole behind a mirror... a mirror with a hole behind it... Entirely useless! Such a hole could be used neither to look through nor to climb though as the mirror would block both surely. Had Erik gone mad? But no, it couldn't be. He was entirely sane—he was simply beyond my level of comprehension.

He smiled at benevolently at me. "I wouldn't have suspected it were possible either, daroga," he said at last. "I discovered it quite by accident when removing from another dressing room an old mirror that needed re-silvering."

I felt the grin spread across my face even before I exactly determined what he had discovered; merely the concept that he had discovered something, combined with a hole in the dancers' dressing room wall....

"Yes, you understand me now," he said nodding. "It's the silliest thing you ever saw." He became animated. "When I took the mirror down, I was close against it... like this," he moved so close our chests bumped and he demonstrated by holding his hand in my face, pressing my nose flat, "and the faded silvering let me see right through it like the simple pane of glass it was." He seemed to suddenly realize our proximity and withdrew. "Yes! I saw _through the mirror_ to the _other side_. Of course, nothing of any interest was on the other side, mind you—merely a wall. But if I could find a way to see through the mirror on one side—"

"You scoundrel!" I exclaimed. "You rake!" I nearly knocked him over in exuberance. "You put a hole behind it and now you're going _go_ behind it...!"

He held me at arms length away. "Of course I am," he intoned. "I shall simply have it resilvered first." He grinned at me.

Words failed me, so I shoved him playfully again and he staggered.

"Compose yourself," he managed through his laughter. "You must be patient. It is why I did not tell you before. Suppose it does not work properly at all!"

Oh, but it would! It must, I insisted as we proceeded down the corridor. I lost myself in thoughts of what I would see when Erik permitted me passage into the space behind the mirror, wherever that was. I was so completely lost in those fantasies that I paid little attention to the remainder of our tour until he commented, "Across the lake is Joseph's hideaway."

"What is Joseph's hideaway?" I heard Darius ask from behind me.

"It isn't much," Erik admitted, "At least not yet. Poor fellow." He shook his head and clucked his tongue. "Pity, really," he murmured. I'd have asked more, but a moment later he stopped beneath a crack where some dim light streamed through from above and withdrew his watch. "Fashionable as it may be, those who are late _do_ tend to miss the first act," he told us pointedly, then set off at a pace we struggled to match.

There was quite a bit of climbing after that and I found it difficult to keep my sense of direction as we moved upward, around in an arc, then upward yet again. At last we emerged from a hole rather like a portal of a ship in some forgotten storage closet from which we darted and slipped undetected into a private box on the first tier.

That night at the Opera surpassed all my prior visits entirely; there really is nothing like a private box.

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**Shameless Begging:** Reviews are not only welcomed, they are sought after, dreamed of, dare I say...? _lusted_ for. So please leave one. Unless you can't think of anything to say. In that case, don't feel put upon. But if you have anything to say, please please _please_ do so. Because it just really means that much to me. Thanks!

A couple of quick notes:

Regarding the lines on the ceiling beneath the Opera--I don't know if there really are any lines _there_, but such lines are used in areas of the Paris catacombs so that people do not loose their way. There are, apparently, public and non-public areas and if you do some searching online, you can read some great stories of folks who have left the public areas and explored some very seemingly-dangerous areas. I haven't yet visited, but it's on my top ten list of things to see in Paris, that's for certain.

Two way mirrors (also called one-way mirrors, just to be deliberately confusing) were not patented until 1903 in America, explaining why our dear Persian narrator has no idea how such a thing could possibly work. It's not inconcievable, though, that someone in Europe could have discovered such a thing years earlier and simply not patented it.


	5. Rosy Hours of the Opera

**A Quick Quote:** I wanted to share this particular quote with you. Though it doesn't necessarily go with this chapter moreso than with the other chapters, it certainly goes with this story in general. "It seldom doth happen, in any way of life, that a sluggard and a rakehell do not go together." –Isaac Barrow, _Of Industry In General._

**Author's Note:** Some of you, who read my long POTO sequel (which was "temporarily" titled _Therapeutic_ and then left that way all the way to the end) may remember my mentioning a friend of mine who is like a daughter to me and who was hospitalized for several months beginning in September of 2008. It turns out she has a condition called LAM, which is short for Lymphangioleiomyomatosis, which is considered terminal and is usually fatal within about ten years from the date of diagnosis. My friend is only 21 years old, is sleeping on my sofa, is unable to work and owes more in medical bills than I owe on my home. Amazingly, she keeps a positive attitude. She hopes to be able to return to work sometime in the near future and is committed to paying back all she owes to the doctors. Because she is not yet able to work, she is asking for donations for her medical bills. Please visit her website, even if you are unable to donate at this time and send her some encouraging words. If you are able and willing, please consider donating even a very small amount and passing her story along via email to your internet buddies. As links to do not work on FFN, to get there go to wwwDOTfightlamDOTcom but change the word DOT to an actual dot. Thanks so much in advance.

**Disclaimer:** Regrettably, I still don't own POTO. All my characters are always entirely Leroux-based. This is my first attempt at "humor," so if you don't laugh, please don't laugh at me.

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The dressing room mirror, a strange combination of magic and science, worked better than I could have expected. By some mad coincidence, a dark corridor ran beside the dressing area. Erik simply removed the current mirror that covered the secret hole he had cut previously and placed the corrupted mirror in its place. From the dark hallway, the mirror was a windowpane if the lamps were lit in the dressing room; from the dressing room, it looked entirely ordinary. Darius and I stood staring in wonder from the dark corridor as Erik capered about within the dressing room making outlandish faces at himself in the mirror. What a wonder, what a joy, I thought. I might bring a chair, I thought, and remain there for hours on end.

Erik snorted at the idea when I voiced it and suggested that there were better things I could do with a few hours and a group of ladies. I blushed beneath my dark complexion and admitted he was right.

Even Buquet joined us occasionally and the four of us had quite a time, though Joseph never did more than look. As a married man, that was where he drew the line. It was the only time he ever mentioned his marriage in front of Darius or me, and Erik changed the subject abruptly to something more light-hearted.

Those evenings at the Opera are some of the best memories of my life. During the years of Debienne and Poligny money was plentiful, youth was on our side and Erik was at his peak. We enjoyed the Opera from our box, where we were regularly tended by our box keeper, a kindly widowed woman with a daughter in the corps de ballet. Erik, as the ghost, made her ridiculous promises and plied her with chocolates so we had whatever we wished. On more than one occasion we arranged to have our lady friends join us, though how Erik smuggled them into the Opera without using the tunnel remains a mystery to me.

Eventually the place that Erik had referred to as Joseph's Hideaway was revealed to me, though at that first visit it was not yet the luxurious retreat it eventually became. In those early days it was a mere single room—the one that eventually became the parlor once it was as complete as a house—to which we retired after hours to drink and relate stories of our escapades above when we were too tired to make the journey all the way home to Rue de Rivoli.

It came about, said Erik, entirely by accident. Apparently after a horrid argument with his wife one evening, Buquet had stormed out of his home (or been put out some of us speculated) and found himself with no place to go. Wandering, his feet led him to work, to the Opera, and, unwilling to admit to the other employees what had happened at home, he made his way below as though he had some important business in a prop room and then disappeared easily into the deeper recesses of the cellar where few, if any, ever went. After an uncomfortable night dozing in a seated position in a corridor and startling awake at every sound, he devised means to cross the lake to avoid the anxiety associated with being caught by his subordinates, or (worse still) the management. He shuttled a lantern, a chair, a few books, and some sacks of old fabric from costuming for a make-shift bed across and camped there until Erik happened to discover him.

Why Erik was on the other side of a murky lake at the bottom of the Opera is beyond my comprehension. I didn't even bother to ask. Suffice to say once Erik arrived Buquet promptly left in embarrassment. Erik did what any decent friend would do—he found some used furniture and dragged it below to improve upon the situation, then built walls around the place to close it into a room. When Joseph returned after his next argument, he found a shabbily furnished and undecorated room waiting where his pile of rags had previously been. I only wish I had been there to see the look on his face.

I was only moderately surprised, really. After all, it was Erik who had solved my own housing troubles as well, albeit far less creatively than he solved those of Joseph Buquet. I was almost jealous for a moment, until Erik suggested we give up the flat and consider building on to the hideaway.

A chill ran through me then. What a horrid place, I said. Darius and I can share a room like we did when we were children, I said, and Joseph could have my room. Surely four could live as cheaply as three, and Buquet was _employed_. What was one more flat-mate to three bachelors such as us?

"I'll improve it then," he said. "It can be made livable. Really. There are unused storage spaces down there. We can add a wall, make a doorway..." It was beginning to sound too much like work to me, but Erik's eyes were alight. "And it will be entirely secret," he said rapturously. "No reasonable person _ever_ crosses that dreadful lake."

"No reasonable person indeed," I put in.

"You are not so reasonable either, Daroga, fortunately for you."

I glared at him. I was still a bit offended he had played his ghost prank without my assistance, but as he was obviously cutting me in on the rest of the Opera prank, it had to forgive him. "I like the flat," I managed.

He sighed. "It's such an expense. Think of the fun we could have with the money!"

"I like the flat," I repeated uselessly. Erik would have Erik's way. After all, it was Erik's money. "It would have to feel like a real house," I muttered at last.

"Oh, it will, Daroga," he assured me. "With everything a regular house has. Like... _windows_." He laughed terribly.

I admit, though, that it was terribly convenient not to have to walk back to the flat after an evening out. We merely waited until the crowds were gone and slipped below. We had our house arranged in a matter of weeks as Erik arranged for help. Contrary to popular opinion, quite a great number of people were involved in the great Opera prank, most of them employees, and all of them taking a small share (which seemed a great amount to them compared with their wages) in the ghost's twenty-thousand. It is a great deal easier to buy a man's silence than one might think. A few hundred francs, a few drinks, a promise to use the sacred space if ever it were needed and stagehands and door closers were ready to build a palace if Erik wished it. A few didn't need any bribery at all; the mere thought of getting the better of their employers was enough to inspire them to awful deeds and great feats. It is in this way that what eventually became known as "the house on the lake" was constructed, furnished, and decorated.

Meanwhile, we ate, we drank, we caroused and we reveled, all at the expense of Debienne and Poligny, whom I should not feel guilty taking money from, Erik assured me, for the former was a rogue and the latter a lecher.

"And what are you, Erik?" I asked him once. "And what am I, for that matter? Do you claim neither of us is either of those?"

He blinked innocently at me, tucking his chin and staring down his pasteboard nose. "It is not the same thing at all," he said indignantly. "There is a difference, Daroga, in one who selfishly takes and one who gives something in return." He paused in thought. "Indeed, one who gives more than he takes," he added. I didn't understand him at that moment and I didn't feel like having an argument, so I pretended his answer was sufficient. It has taken me until now to fully understand.

In the meantime, I pushed my guilt aside and enjoyed the many pleasures Erik secured for us. It was a high life we lived in those years. Though days are pleasant enough now, surely nothing can compare with the life we lived until Debienne and Poligny abruptly put an end, at least temporarily, to all our fun. They did so in the most unexpected way possible; they retired.

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**Regarding Reviews:** Thanks for all the reviews last chapter. I appreciate it. I'm a little ahead again, so I might be able to post again Sunday. A little extra encouragement never hurts (hint hint).

**More important than reviews:** Please stop by wwwDOTfightlamDOTcom.


	6. A flashback

Disclaimer: I don't own Erik (yet).

Author's Note: I couldn't resist. Here's another chapter for all of you, early. After all, we're having such fun together, aren't we?

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Yes, they retired and ruined it all, but I am getting ahead of myself, for the bet that started the whole mess with the little Daaé girl occurred _before _the tragedy of the retirement. Before we go further into that tale, however, I must tell you a bit about what I have referred to ask Erik's tears and self-loathing routine for it was hardly new when Daaé fell for it. Why, just the week before our bet he was using it in my presence in our box during a performance. Yes! _During_ the performance! It worked so well he didn't even bother to remain for the final act!

I cannot remember now the name of the Opera that was being performed at the time. I can say it was something tragic in Italian with a heart-wrenching scene between a mother and son. It was also one of the times that Erik had chosen to bring his lady—and I use the term very loosely, for Erik had a different lady each night and occasionally more than one in a given night—to the box for the performance.

At the height of emotion on stage, I happened to notice movement at my side so I turned to see Erik's companion suddenly leaning toward him, no longer interested in the opera but intent upon Erik. It was nothing unusual, I assured myself. It was not unheard of for Erik's hands to wander to unspeakable places at inopportune times, and I sincerely doubt there is a young lady in France—or anywhere for that matter—who could focus on an opera while Erik's hands are roving. So I thought nothing of it. Until I caught a bit of the words she murmured. I glanced over to find Erik with a hand to his brow, covering his eyes ashamedly. I reached around my own companion to push Darius's shoulder and incline my head towards Erik. My brother glanced over, shrugged absentmindedly, and turned his eyes back to the stage. My companion noticed nothing, so I looked back at Erik. He appeared to be in great distress.

I say appeared to be, because as I have already mentioned, Erik had a routine that garnered much sympathy. At the same time, however, his act was so convincing that he damn near fooled me every time and this time was no different. My eyes moved from Erik to his companion and back again. Her hand touched his reassuringly, and he withdrew it from his brow to look at her.

_Erik was crying. _

I remember the first time I saw Erik cry. It was the first time he tried out his freak show story and the bit about his mother. We were entering that awkward phase of life in which we were not yet men but were certainly no longer boys. Between work and study we had little time for fantasy, but what little time we had, we fantasized about the girls. Mostly, we fantasized about one young lady in particular. She gave us both strange feelings we weren't sure what to do with, so we joked about them, quite loudly and inappropriately. Often.

"Stop staring at my wife," Erik scolded me quite suddenly one afternoon when I had been unable to tear my eyes from the shape of her bosom pressed upward in that corset she had only recently begun to wear.

"Your wife!" I burst out, and then I laughed aloud. Truth be told, Erik's chances were about as great as mine. She was a class above us; we were not to be spoken to by such as she, except perhaps in derision or charity. This did not keep me from insisting, "I was staring at _my own_ wife!" And this degraded quickly into the argument that eventually led to our daring one another to approach her. Shy boy that I was, I backed down. Erik, on the other hand, mustered up some confidence that I have never been able to understand and sauntered up to her. Yes. He sauntered. Like some sort of cavalier. And he went all about the formalities of reaching for her hand and trying to place a kiss upon it whereupon she spat some vile name at him and condemned him with her eyes. I cringed. Erik does not tolerate abuse and I could only begin to imagine what would occur if he did something terrible. I was not at all prepared for what he did next.

He fell to his knees and debased himself. He called himself a host of upsetting epithets such as a freak and a monster and the lowest of the low. I waited on tenterhooks for some terrible backlash, but it didn't come. And when Erik had reduced himself to nothing, admitting his terrible "past" as a humble freak, the girl went as pale as Erik and her lips fell open so beautifully that I had I not been entirely entranced by his story I would have fallen hopelessly to the fantasy of thrusting my tongue between them. And then he delivered the final blow.

"My own mother," he said, after he had just finished his flawless apology for the horror of his face, "couldn't even bear to look upon me. How could I ask it of an angel such as you, when my mother... my own mother...!" His voice broke and I tore my eyes away from the lovely face to look at his. His strange features twisted terribly and suddenly from his dark sockets slid tears which rolled silently down his face as he thanked the girl who had insulted him for allowing him to gaze upon her beauty, unworthy as he was. By now my own mouth was hanging open. It was the first time I saw Erik cry, and I did not know what to make of it. For a moment, I, too, believed him, for who can doubt a man when he is moved to tears?

Then all thoughts except wonder left my head, for the beautiful young lady reached out with both her hands and took his suddenly, wordlessly, and with a gentle tug, urged him to his feet. She drew her hands back to herself an instant later, for she had crossed the lines of propriety, but her eyes, also wet with tears, locked upon his for an instant before she looked down. Then she allowed him to stand beside her a moment and they exchanged a few quiet words that I did not hear. His shoulders rose and fell and he passed his hand across his eyes. She cocked her head to the side and appeared to be in pain. He shook his head and held out a hand reassuringly then turned and moved toward me, head bent to the ground, posture slumped.

"What the hell happened to you?" I burst out before I could stop myself, but Erik made no effort to answer. He put his head down and heaved a heavy sigh. "Erik!" I shook him by the shoulder, and he looked up at me, a mournful expression across his face. I felt something like fear then, for what could I possibly do for him when I did not know what caused his distress? I put my hand reassuringly on his back and guided him away from the girl. "What happened?" I hissed urgently.

"Is she watching?" he asked quietly, putting his head down once again.

I glanced back at her. "Yes."

"Ah."

We walked in silence for a few moments, then, just before we turned the corner he asked, "And now?"

She was.

A moment later we rounded the bend and buildings blocked our view of her. Erik was suddenly upright and cheerful again. I punched him in the shoulder. "That poor girl, Erik!" I said. "She believed you!"

He turned an innocent expression to me. "Why shouldn't she believe me?" he asked. "I only told her the truth. I have had a very difficult life, even at my young age."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh yes. _So_ difficult."

He sniffed. "You question me Daroga? You question my integrity? Now that..." he trailed off and looked away. "That," he began again, but his voice broke. "That hurts," he whispered. He looked up at me and his eyes were shining with fresh tears. Genuine tears this time, I knew, for I, _his friend_, had doubted him.

"I'm sorry, Erik," I said at once. I knew not how to comfort him here in the busy city street. I laid my hand on his shoulder once again. "Forgive me," I said quietly. I felt a lump rising in my throat. He was my greatest friend, and I had not even known what pain life had given him. "Erik, I had no idea."

He stopped walking for a moment to stare deeply into my eyes.

And then he burst out laughing.

I hated him at that moment.

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**A shameless review-offer:** Amazingly, a whole bunch of you read and reviewed already. And I happened to notice it's Memorial Day Weekend, which I had previously overlooked. So, here's a post for today. (It's barely Sunday, so I don't know if this counts as a Saturday night post or a Sunday morning post.) Whatever the case, I am willing to post AGAIN if you like... You know how to tell me that! (Little green button marked review.) Thanks in advance, and I hope you're still having as much fun as I am!


	7. Daroga

**Disclaimer:** I don't own POTO but I do own most of the funny stuff in this post and I'm exceedingly over-proud of myself for this one. I had a lot of fun writing it and hope you have at least as much reading it.

**Author's Note:** Heartfelt thanks to ichigoV13 for becoming the 10th reviewer to post #6 (they're just so short I can't bear to call them "chapters") thus making me feel like enough people have read that it's time to go ahead and post the next bit. Additionally, it just coincidentally worked out that several of you (ichigoV13 included!) asked why our narrator is called Daroga if what we learned in Leroux's original is not exactly accurate. Lo! And Behold! THIS NEXT PIECE REVEALS IT! As to my grasp of the Persian language, it's purely nil, but I learned a little something from IG over at DeviantART that he says HE learned from a Persian friend of his, and this chapter could not have been written without that essential little bit of knowledge. If you get a chance, please visit IG (Iron Gibbet) at DeviantART and read his wonderful comic that also deals with the original Leroux novel and some amazing things that happen involving Erik approximately 100 years later. It's really fantastic (and sometimes he has contests for fanfiction writers, so if you're a writer, all the more reason to check it out!) Anyway, without further ado, here's part 7!

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By that time I already had my ridiculous nickname, which is neither name nor title in Persian. That, too, is something Erik originated, apparently while he was working up to being able to cry on cue. He came up with it one afternoon out of the blue. "Daroga," he said, looking directly at me as though I were supposed to recognize the sounds for meaning.

"What does that mean?" I asked him.

"You ought to know," he said, "since you're Persian."

"Half Persian," I corrected him. "And I don't know what it means. You know I don't speak Persian. And neither do you!"

"It's Persian," he'd insisted. "That much is certain." He paused for thought a moment. "It's Persian for chief-of-police," he said decidedly.

"No, it isn't," I insisted.

He smiled that patronizing smile that I had seen him give both tutors and parents. "Isn't it? How _does_ one say 'chief-of-police' in Persian, then, if you're such an expert?"

Well, he had me there; I hadn't a clue, but I certainly wasn't going to admit it to him that easily. I had no idea what daroga meant, if it was Persian or not, or how one said chief-of-police in the language of my mother's country, and it embarrassed me to be put on the spot this way. I allowed myself to get angry with him for it. "Stop making fun of my mother's ancestry!" I shouted at him to cover my embarrassment. I turned and stalked away.

He followed me, the same way I had seen him follow a girl or two on occasion. Except _for me_ there was true sincerity in his voice. "I'm sorry, Rasheed," he said. "Truly I am. Please believe me. I wasn't making fun of you. I didn't mean it that way." I ignored him, walking fast. He lagged behind and called out, "I have the deepest respect for your mother!" I continued to ignore him for fully half a block.

Suddenly he was at my side again. "Please," he said. "You're my best friend. I don't know what I would do without you." I wouldn't have stopped if it hadn't been for that hitch in his voice. It was the just the faintest hint of a suppressed sob. It was so faint I doubted it, and I was still angry. I resisted him even as his jaw quivered.

"You don't know what you'll do without me? Well, I suppose you'll find out soon enough!"

He coughed. At least, that's what he would have me believe, but I was certain of the badly concealed sob beneath it and I turned back. "I'll _think_ about it," I told him. Then I turned and ran from him before there was time to feel sorry enough to forgive him.

* * *

When I burst through the door that evening I ran straight to my mother without even greeting my father first. "What does 'daroga' mean?" I asked her outright without even offering her the courtesy of a good day.

She looked at me, baffled.

"Da-ro-ga" I said. "It's Persian, isn't it? What's it mean?"

And then she laughed, and I felt my face turn hot and I knew that I was red, despite my dark skin. Mother ruffled my hair and corrected my pronunciation.

"So it _is_ a word then?" I could not decide whether or not I was horrified that Erik knew my mother's language better than I did.

"A phrase, really," she said. "It's a lie."

"What's a lie?" I glanced at my father, who shrugged back. Mother was really laughing now. "It's a lie," she said. "Daroga means 'it's a lie.'"

"Oh," I said. What more could I say? Oh. I couldn't stop smiling after that, though, for _Erik was wrong_.

* * *

I'll never forget the look on his face the next time I saw him. He was wearing his best apologetic face, hanging his head and looking up at me as he waited for me to accept his whined apology. "You don't know Persian, you moron," I said instead.

His apology was over with my last word. His head snapped up to face me and his eyes glittered dangerously. "I don't have to speak your language to destroy you," he said.

I was not afraid of Erik. I stared him down and said cheerfully, "You don't know what 'daroga' means. I bet you don't know any Persian at all!"

He fairly growled at me at that. "Oh really?" he sneered. "Then tell me little Persian, what does it mean?"

I gave him my most studious look. "Daroga," I said, "means 'it's a lie.' For example, if you said to me 'I speak Persian,' I might respond 'daroga,' because, it's a lie that you know any Persian at all.

Erik didn't have time to look insulted. The laugher overtook him too suddenly. He did manage to squeak, "Oh, that's just perfect," but then he said nothing else for a very long time.

Really, you haven't lived if you haven't seen Erik laugh. He put his skinny hands on his knobby knees and threw back his head and guffawed. Then, just as he seemed about to catch his breath he tried to speak to me and dissolved into a fit of ridiculous giggles. It was such a silly sight to behold that I found myself chuckling as well, more quietly though, and into my hands, as I was quite shy and rarely showed emotion, certainly never made any loud sounds as Erik was doing.

For some reason, my attempt to suppress my own laughter sent Erik over the brink, for a moment later he was pointing at me and shaking uncontrollably as he laughed soundlessly, scarcely able to breath. Then he attempted to suck some air quickly through his vacant nose and the resulting ridiculous noise, far more amusing than a nosed-person's accidental snort while laughing, got him going yet again. He ended with a descending sigh and began rubbing his protruding ribs as though in pain. "You're trying to kill me," he said with a mock serious expression. Then, after a deep calming breath, "Is that really what it means?"

"Indeed."

He bit his lower lip with his crooked front teeth and fought back a fresh round of giggles. "Really, Daroga," he barely managed to use the word without losing it, and I noticed that his pronunciation was far more correct than my own, "that is far more fitting than I had ever hoped. Oh yes. That is most certainly your new title."

I frowned. "What will people think of me, going around with a nickname that suggests I'm dishonest?"

"Stop worrying, Daroga!" He was using it quite naturally now, as if it had been my name all along. "We'll still tell everyone it means chief-of-police."

"But that's a lie," I burst out automatically.

"That is rather the point," he said condescendingly, but I ignored it because... well, because Erik was my friend and for all my posturing a few days earlier, the truth is, I couldn't imagine _my_ life without _him_. I could live a lie if it meant that Erik would always be my friend. "Oh yes," he began again pushing his hair back dramatically so his strange face was oddly accentuated. "I was so ugly that my mother couldn't bear to look at me, so she sold me to a traveling gypsy sideshow. It was with the gypsy sideshow that I traveled to your country."

I rolled my eyes. _I _had never even been to "my" country, but there was no turning back once Erik embarked on a story. His voice took on the familiar lilt it did when he was fabricating a tale and I listed raptly as he told how he ran away from the sideshow and grew to adulthood in the streets of the Persian capital before eventually coming to live in the palace of the Shah.

"And then, you magically became young again," I interjected, pointing at Erik, who had not yet reached his fifteenth birthday.

He pointed at me. "You are a true genius, Daroga! It is true! I was a great magician in your country! That is _how_ I came to the palace of the Shah. I was the Shah's personal magician. No. No! Not the Shah! The—" he paused. "What is she called?" He snapped his fingers at me. "Not the Shah but the—"

"Sultana?" I don't even think that's the right term to be honest, but it came to mind, and I uttered it.

He snapped his fingers again. "That's it! I became the personal magician of the Sultana."

It was here that I gave up trying to be the voice of reason. After all, what fun was reason? I allowed myself to laugh.

"I make you laugh, do I? Oh, how I used to make the Sultana laugh! It was unfortunate for me, though. The Shah suspected I had done far more than make her laugh...." He winked a deep-socketed eye at me and dropped his voice low. "I was sentenced to death you know."

I shook my head at his wild imagination.

Erik continued, pointing at me. "Your father was the chief-of-police, a position which you were to inherit. He was to capture and put an end to me. But we had been friends in the palace of the Shah when we were young."

I let the fact that we were still young now be ignored. Whatever. Erik voice took on a commanding tone; he could have told me the emperor was a goat, and I'd have believed. I afforded him the luxury of a smile.

"I made you smile often when were boys," he said. "It is why you spared my life and brought me here to Paris...."

What can I say? We were young and frivolous, and every young person needs to embark upon fantasy. I certainly didn't expect at the time that we'd be retelling a variety of versions of that ridiculous story as adults some twenty years later.

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**Shameless Begging on behalf of myself and others:** The more you review, the faster I write. The faster I write, the more often I post. The more often I post, the more those of you who find this funny get to laugh. Additionally, if you put some really hysterical suggestions in your reviews, maybe I'll find ways to work them in. I'm ALWAYS looking for ideas, so don't be shy. Jump right in and hit that little gray button with the green lettering that says "review." You won't regret it!


	8. The Bet

**Author's Note:** Sorry! This was supposed to be a Thursday night post, but here it is Friday morning. This post comes to you from lovely Chicago, which I will not be exploring until later this evening due to my husband's being in a conference. In the meantime, I will be here and writing, so if I happen to get another chapter ready, I'll try to post it.

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own POTO.

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Erik exuded such confidence in everything that it was not until we were men that I realized that my words had the power to affect him. Even now I am not certain whether this is demonstrative of the value he places on our friendship or of a possible underlying insecurity that he masks better than I mask my own; regardless, I do not wish to know. I know only that my words have power over him even when it would seem that they do not, and as such, I must be careful with my words. I learned this only after the ordeal of the Daaé bet, which probably would not have happened at all had my words been as meaningless as I had always believed. I had long since forgotten Erik's response to my comments about what I had referred to as his "tears and loathing routine" when he suddenly brought it up again one afternoon.

We had just left the Lefèbvre home, a place we visited often for there were two lovely Lefèbvre daughters whose father was absent often and suspected absolutely nothing. Erik's evenings were always fully occupied by the Opera, so his seductions often took place during the mid-morning, which was both a boon and a stress at the time; fathers were working, yes, and mothers were often in the market, but girls are frightfully modest during the daylight hours. Such an feat always caused me anxiety, but Erik, who feared he might become bored with his greatest pleasure if it were not challenging, was often at his best in the mornings. This morning was certainly no exception if the cries of the younger of the two sisters I'd heard through my partner's thin wall were any indication. Perhaps Erik had doubts about his performance, however, for as we sat down to coffee he announced:

"You think I'm pathetic." He said it in a tone that was entirely incongruous with his actual words.

I laughed aloud. "Hardly," I said in reply, shaking my head with admiration, those screams of ecstasy from my lover's sister still lingering in my ears. There was no doubt in my mind that Erik was anything but pathetic.

"Predictable then," he suggested with an elegant tug at his cuff.

I grinned at him, a grin so wide I felt my face would split. "Would that I could be as predictable as you!" I said. "If by predictable you mean that one can easily predict your ability to pleasure nearly every beautiful young lady in Paris, I don't see how that's a bad thing."

It was Erik's turn to smile now, but it was a weak smile. He was tired, perhaps, from his from long tryst with young Mademoiselle Lefèbvre. Unless he was ill, I considered for a moment. I was unable to prevent worry from creeping into my gut for just a moment. We were living such a lecherous life. Surely we would be punished at some point.

"I am not so attractive," Erik began again, unsolicited.

I glanced up, perplexed. Who had dared to comment on Erik's physical appearance, I wondered, and why, as it did not seem to have any real effect on his daily life, did he dwell upon it for even a moment?

"What?" I managed.

"It is certainly not my appearance they most enjoy," he continued.

I shrugged and avoided the topic. "It's your _skill_ they most enjoy," I offered. "Either that or your—"

"And yet you doubt me."

I stopped and put my mug down. "I have never doubted you," I blurted. Then, when he did not relent from staring at me with eyes that bored a hole in me I dared to inquire, "about what?"

"That I could woo a woman who had not seen me."

If I were one of Erik's loud, rude, drunken friends, I might have responded that I found it harder to believe that he had any ability to woo one who _had_. But I had been brought up properly and even had I not been, I was innately sensitive to such things.

There was a long moment of silence.

"I don't see why you couldn't," I said at last. The silence was uncomfortable, so I added, "They tend to close their eyes anyway, don't they?" An instant later I regretted the words and what they could be interpreted to mean. I scrambled frantically to bury them beneath still more words. "I mean, mine do, anyway, especially at that last moment. Of course, I have no way of knowing if yours do, too. I didn't mean to suggest that I had any idea what went on behind closed—"

"Daroga," Erik interrupted me. "Silence." He didn't look offended, so I tried to relax. No, the look upon his face was an uncomfortable one, but nothing ill directed at me. No, he seemed more… anxious. "You said I play upon sympathy too often. You said that I cry too frequently. Perhaps it is true that they allow me the pleasure out of pity alone the first time."

I snorted. "Suppose they do, Erik. Who cares? The fact remains that you get them. And I'm sure that it is only a matter of moments before pity turns to—"

He shook his head. "No, no," he said emphatically. "It is not about me but them. Perhaps they are faking everything in deference to my feelings."

Here I choked upon my coffee. I had doubts about any woman's ability to fake screams so forceful. "No," I said.

He nodded slowly. "I shall have to try it then."

"What shall you do?" I asked. "Wear a mask?" An instant later I hated myself for that last remark for it crossed the line to speaking about appearance.

I winced, but Erik proceeded as though the words had no hidden meaning. "A mask covers only one's face," he said thoughtfully. "And yet, to a certain extent, when one's face is hidden…."

I shrugged.

"I have perhaps over-estimated myself," he said quietly.

I leaned closer, straining to hear him.

"I swore to you that I could drive her to ecstasy without touching her."

"You were speaking metaphorically," I offered.

"Except I wasn't."

I sighed. "I took it that way."

He shook his head. "One mustn't get too arrogant. One must never overestimate one's self."

I nodded. The matter was surely dropped. Erik would not boast quite so creatively again.

He leaned forward suddenly his hands against the surface of the table and his face close to mine. "But I believe I _can_," he whispered. "Have I gone mad with conceit?"

I chuckled. "You," I told him, "Are likely the most talented lover on earth. But no one can pleasure a woman without touching her. Don't be upset about it."

He drew back from me suddenly, a hurt expression upon his face. "Then you don't believe I could!" he said, and I rolled my eyes. He spoke with a newfound resolve. "I'll _prove_ it to you. You'll see."

I laughed aloud. "Why would you want to do that? What is the point of _that_? Fun for her, no fun for you."

He folded his arms and looked indignant. "But I could do it," he insisted, and when I did not immediately agree he stood and held out his hand to me. "I'll bet you ten-thousand francs," he wagered.

I frowned. Erik was a trickster and now he was playing with me. "Don't be ridiculous," I shot back. I couldn't earn ten-thousand francs in a year and Erik knew it. I tried to glare at him. "Erik you know perfectly well—"

"If I can't manage it, you know I shant mind giving you ten-thousand francs," he said with a brotherly push at my shoulder.

I rolled my eyes again. It was such a sure bet that had it been anyone but Erik I would have agreed already and excused myself to go plan what I would do with all that money. As it _was _Erik however, I could not rely so heavily upon what seemed a sure thing. After all, I had never seen Erik loose a bet, and I hadn't ten-thousand francs. "And if I lose?"

He shrugged.

"Truly," I said. "What if I lose?"

"You shine my shoes," he said. He leaned back in his chair, folding arms and stretching his long legs.

"Be reasonable," I said. "That's not a fair bet and I don't want charity from you."

He smirked. "Every night for a year. And you never again question my expertise."

I sighed. I didn't remember questioning Erik's ability, but who could possibly turn down such a one-sided bet, especially with the odds so stacked in my favor? "A girl you've never had before?" I confirmed.

"Absolutely," Erik nodded solemnly at me.

I snickered. "Where are we going to find one of those?"

"You choose one," he said, still serious.

I sobered. "Absolutely," I agreed.

Erik's bony hand closed around mine in a friendly handshake.

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**Trademark Shameless Begging:** ::cheesy grin::: "Reviews?"


	9. Christine Daaé

**Author's note:** Here is another chapter because... well... I'm impatient to get to posting some of the really good stuff that comes after this.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Phantom of the Opera_, _Don Juan Triumphant_, or any of the _Don Juan_ tales on which my Erik is based. I do, however, own this particular incarnation of Erik.

* * *

"Well, go on. Choose one," Erik urged.

We were sitting in box five, carefully obscured behind the dust covers, for the amphitheater was vacant but for us as the corps de ballet practiced. Erik tapped his ring on the arm of his seat impatiently. "Choose one" he insisted.

"It wouldn't be a fair bet, Erik," I replied. "You've _had_ all these girls."

"All at once, Daroga?" His eyebrows shot up and his face elongated as he lowered his jaw without opening his mouth so that his mouth turned down giving him a more funereal appearance than usual. I suppressed a laugh at the strange expression. "I am not so talented as _that_!"

I laughed aloud. "Are you sure you aren't? Can't know for certain until you try. I'm certainly willing to assist you."

He snickered into his hand. "Enough already. Just choose one."

"No, really, Erik. Perhaps a chorus girl instead. I'm certain you've been with all the dancers."

"Even if I have—"

"_No,_" I insisted. "They'll remember what it was like. It'll give you an unfair advantage. It has to be someone new." My voice turned to a childish whine. "You promised, Erik."

He relented. "Someone _new_," he murmured, eyes scanning the ballet rats with a disappointed expression.

I worried at that. Perhaps there wasn't a girl left in Paris! I changed the subject and before long we were so engrossed in conversation we didn't notice the ballerinas leaving the stage.

When the chorus rehearsed later that afternoon, I saw her. She was thin and beautiful with fair skin and hair the color of burnished gold. I felt my heart beat a bit faster before I even _truly_ looked at her. Her face was young and innocent, and I wondered if it was a true reflection of her spirit or not, for sometimes looks are deceiving. I let my eyes wander down her body to her small but perfectly shaped breasts. I felt my blood in my veins and a twisting feeling in my stomach and below. I felt Erik looking at me and I became aware that I had tensed in my seat and squeezed the arms of my chair. Despite my desire I knew this was the one I had to choose for Erik—for I had never seen her before, which meant there was _at least a chance _that Erik hadn't either.

"Who is that blonde? There—on the end?" I asked him as innocently and disinterestedly as I could manage.

He turned his head and watched her a moment, his chin on his knuckles. "I have no idea," he drawled.

I watched her another moment, her chin tucked coyly, her red painted lips wide open standing almost on her toes as she reached for a high note. A familiar tightening sensation in my trousers forced me to shift in my seat uncomfortably. I tugged at my trouser legs unsuccessfully. And I was only looking at her, not fantasizing particularly creatively! _Damn._ "That one," I said with sudden abandon. I wanted her, yes, but where else was I to find a girl Erik didn't know? I turned to look at him.

He smiled slowly. "Sure," he said. He eyes locked on her and narrowed. I wondered if he felt the same rush of lust I did. If he did, he kept it concealed better than I. "What are the parameters again?"

I rolled my eyes. "You can't touch her. And she can't see you."

He grinned. "But I can see her. And she can touch me."

"Yes," I replied, "and no. No touching. How could she touch you without seeing you?"

"I could blindfold her," he suggested. The glint in his eye indicated that now that he'd thought of it, he desperately wished to try it.

"No," I insisted. "She can't touch you. If she's touching you, your body is touching hers. That's a cheat."

His smile faded slightly. "Alright," he conceded. "No touching until _after _I win the bet."

"Or lose." I said. "Yes."

"After I _win_," he insisted. "_Then_ I can have her."

I shrugged. "If there's any challenge at all left in it for you after that, sure, have her." Did I sound disinterested? I hoped to discourage him without revealing my motivation. Perhaps after Erik did not touch her, I would get the chance to do the opposite.

Meanwhile, he licked his lips and watched her ravenously.

* * *

"Her name is Christine," he trilled the next time we talked. "Have you ever heard so lovely a name?"

"Yes," I replied. "Just yesterday it was Margot. And the day before Cherié. Last week, Chantal."

"They're all so lovely," he managed.

"Indeed."

"You chose well, Daroga," he said suddenly.

"Mm?"

"I mean, if you hope _to win_. You chose _very _well. She's all but an innocent child!"

"Really?" I was curious now. "What makes you say that?"

"I have been observing her since the day you selected her. She is quiet, religious, has few friends. She lives with an elderly woman and never goes out except to come here. Poor dear. She has hardly a life at all. And she's so very sad."

"Sad?"

He nodded.

"Because she has hardly a life?"

"I have no idea. I suspect that is a part of it. Perhaps she is lonely. I'll need more time to be sure. But she is always so forlorn. If you win this bet, it will be due to whom you have chosen, not an inability on my part."

"Certainly, Erik, certainly."

"If I lose…." He trailed off, staring into space the way he often does. "Honestly, I wonder if she should be sorrowful even between the sheets. I wonder, could I make her _smile _even, let alone...." He stopped suddenly. "She is far more talented than you might think," he added.

I glared at him. "Talented _how_?"

"_Singing_," he responded, then realized my implication. "Stop that, Daroga! I haven't cheated." He paused. "When no one is listening, you should _hear_ how she _sings_."

"Really!"

In the meantime, I have been thinking...."

"Yes?"

"Without touching her is easy. Women have wild imaginations. Words can do wonders. But without her seeing me.... How shall I even speak to her without her seeing me? That shall take quite a clever strategy."

"You're the one who said you could do it," I responded without sympathy. My mind turned to all the things I might do with ten thousand francs should Erik fail.

"Yes, yes..." he responded distractedly. "And I could, certainly, with a different type of girl…." He brought a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his fake nose and squinted up his eyes in thought. "There are no restrictions on how I manage it, so long as she does not see me and I do not touch her?"

"That was the arrangement."

"It doesn't matter if I lie to her?"

I was completely confused a moment as I stared back at him. Always Erik lied to them. What had that to do with anything? I held out my hands in puzzlement. "What do you mean?" I asked.

"If I try something utterly outlandish," he said.

"So long as she doesn't see you," I said, trying desperately to keep the curiosity from my voice. "And you don't touch one another."

Truth be told, as much as I desired the money, I was hoping Erik would manage it, just so I could see _how_.

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**Begging:** I apologize if this chapter is less funny than previous chapters. It tends to go from funny to licentious every couple of chapters. Interestingly, there's a category for "humor" but not a category for the other. Please review anyway. I do so love the comments. PS: Can't WAIT to get to the night of the gala or to Christine's trainride to Perros, but I have to post chronologically, or it won't make sense, so I may need to increase posting. On the other hand, tomorrow starts the last week of school in Texas, and I work in public education, so I may drop off the face of the earth entirely until June 7. Whatever the case, please stay with me and let me know what you think.


	10. He wins!

**Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, despite efforts to the contrary, I still do not yet own POTO. (Damn!)

**Author's Note:** Ah, just for you, the equivalent of a double-post (2000 words!) mostly because I couldn't figure out where to break it. Enjoy!

* * *

After that, we spent more time at the Opera than ever before. Erik had the equivalent of three jobs by now, what with scene-shifting, playing a ghost, and attempting to woo a girl half his age whom he could not touch and who could not see him. Still, I've never seen him so invigorated as he was by the challenge. I increased my time at the Opera as well, in part to ensure that Erik did not cheat on his bet with me and in part for reasons of my own.

Some months earlier, I had managed to persuade that loveliest of dancers, La Sorelli, to give me a try. I didn't advertise this to Erik, for it was not so much a challenge to persuade Sorelli to give anyone a try. On the other hand, I was rather pleased with myself that she had invited me back. After all, she was not an inexperienced girl, and there were many others vying for her attention, including le Comte de Chagny, a man considered superior to me by the ladies in all ways but one. He was noble and I without title; he was taller than average, while I was far shorter than most; he was unbelievably wealthy, while had I not been living off Erik, I would have been relegated to my parents home or the streets. He was maddeningly attractive with his blonde moustache, his prominent forehead and serious eyes and I rather insignificant by comparison and a bit unusual due to my mixed ancestry. Still, it pleased La Sorelli to give me a chance, and I gave her my best. I am no Erik, but I do not merely flatter myself when I say that what I have I use well, for Sorelli had made it known that I was welcome any time she was available. I visited often.

To Erik my excuse was that I had to ensure he did not cheat. After all, while he had never outright lied to me that I knew of for certain, no one to whom Erik lied ever caught him, so cleverly he wove his tales. I had assisted him in such a large number of exploits that I knew it was not beneath him to cheat. I could take no chances that he might meet with the girl in secret behind my back and convince her to play along so that he might win the bet. No, he wouldn't get much out of it but nicely shined shoes (I've always been good at that) but more important than shoe polish to Erik was winning, being right, and having me admit it. Of course, what girl would agree to such nonsense for a bet between two men, I tried to comfort myself, but to no avail. Assuming he did get his hands on her while I was not looking, she would agree to anything for the promise that he might again work the magic he did with his fingers.

And so I came to stalk and trail my best friend through the many levels of the Paris Opera. Our mutual friends knew well why I was there and had placed a number of side bets on Erik's prospects with the new chorus girl, Christine Daaé. The only danger was the management, who had not hired me and would probably have concerns about my lurking about.

Before long the ballerinas were connecting me with the Opera ghost and telling one another I had the evil eye. I had a good chuckle at this, for though I am far from evil, behind the mirror of their dressing room, I _certainly _had the eye.

Erik knew full well why I was following him, and yet he could not resist the opportunity to fool with my mind even as I attempted to. Often times I would follow him down a passageway only to learn that _he_ was following _me_ when he spooked me from behind.

Whatever the case, however, we were frequently within sight or voice of one another, so I knew that Erik was conversing with Christine Daaé from behind a wall near her dressing room. He was not only conversing with her, but he was singing with her. I have said before that had it not been for Erik's strange facial features he certainly would have been an actor; Erik would have been best suited to opera, for in addition to his ability to fake damn near anything, he also had a voice so rich as to defy description. Yes, Erik was singing with the young soprano and he was right: she was far more talented than one would have suspected from hearing her with the chorus.

So I listened to their sessions together and trailed him through the Opera for nearly three months until the afternoon he threw open the door to the storage closet where I was hiding, pulled me out and half-led half-dragged me to the girl's dressing room where he pushed me into her wardrobe, hissed, "Now is the time I win our bet!" in my ear, then closed the door and abruptly departed.

In the dark of the closet I wondered what would happen if the occupant of the dressing room suddenly returned and opened the door to find a confused man of somewhat Persian descent hiding among her costumes. Before long I began to worry that my fears were about to be realized, too, when Christine Daaé arrived.

To my great relief, however, she merely sat at the vanity and began to brush her hair. After perhaps the hundredth stroke she lay the brush down and stared into the depths of the mirror as though there might be something on the other side. Idly I wondered whether Erik had played his mirror trick in this room as well and if by some mistake it worked in both directions. After some time of staring in this matter the girl turned from the mirror and sat, hands clasped, staring vacantly at the wall. Sitting in her wardrobe became utterly boring a moment later when I realized there was very little chance she was going to disrobe. I was just attempting to conceive a way to get her to leave so that I could remove myself from the unpleasant situation when I heard Erik's voice.

The girl's body suddenly tensed and she looked about excitedly. She called Erik an angel and she rose as if to greet him, but he did not appear. He sang to her from someplace behind the wall. She lifted her arms towards the source of the sound and stared as though entranced. Erik's voice rose and fell melodically; briefly, hers joined his. Suddenly, however, her voice dropped away and his reached a roaring crescendo. She whirled around and around as if seeking the source of the sound; when she paused in his, I could see her face clearly and ascertained that tears shone in her eyes.

Erik's voice faded slowly. I did not recognize the piece and wondered what it was, if he had composed it himself, what was the meaning of the unrecognizable words. Meanwhile, Mademoiselle Daaé's face contorted slightly as she strained to cling to the fading sound.

There was silence in the dressing room, and I heard my blood in my ears as we waited in anticipation. Erik's voice reached out once again, slowly, tentatively. Christine's eyes opened wide and her lips parted slightly. I stole a glance at the mirror, at the door. Erik was nowhere to be seen, but his voice groped her almost physically. She put her hand to her throat, awestruck.

The nimble voice tripped carelessly up the scale and down again, and I could easily imagine Erik's fingers trilling up and down the girl's body. I watched her heaving bosom and wondered if her thoughts were pure or if they were as sinful as my own. The hand at her throat strayed to her heart as she caught her breath. She closed her eyes and slowly sunk to her knees and lifted her arms once more. Erik's voice filled the room. It surrounded me and beat my ears, even as I hid there in the closet. The girl's jaw trembled, her eyelids fluttered and her breathing became shallow and all but stopped.

Erik's final note wrapped around us entirely. I felt his presence as strongly as if he were standing beside me, his arm about my shoulders, his lips near my ear. I shook his presence away and ran my hands over my arms as though I could brush his essence from my shirtsleeves.

The poor girl collapsed onto the floor, breathing heavily. I adjusted myself in the wardrobe to wait longer. She did not appear able to stand and indeed did not for many minutes. When she did, she kept one hand pressed to her heart and shuffled from the room slowly, leaving her furs behind. I counted to a hundred before she returned for them. I began counting again and reached five hundred before I dared emerge from the wardrobe and creep to the door to look out. The hallway was vacant. With one toe I tried the floor carefully, as though it would fall away suddenly beneath me. When it didn't, I made my way silently a few steps down the corridor. Suddenly Erik pounced upon me from seemingly nowhere; I pretended to be unimpressed.

"Wasn't that magnificent, Daroga? Oh, that was singular. Truly. I could not have imagined!" He gripped me in a tight embrace. "Thank you," he told me. "I would never have thought to try that had it not been for you! Oh! That was _beyond_ ecstasy. It was bliss. It was _rapture_. And it was only my _voice_. Can you imagine if I had been able to _touch_ her?" He paused a moment to quiver with excitement. He drew away then suddenly and looked quite uncomfortable. "Let's go," he said. "Let us find women we can _touch_."

I laughed aloud. Poor Erik!

Erik led me out the doors and hailed a cab. "I hope you'll be happy shining shoes, Daroga. I have so many pairs in need of attention, you know..."

"Yes, yes," I muttered as good-naturedly as I could. The truth was Erik had taken splendid care of me all these years. The least I could do was shine his shoes. Even so, I could not resist one small attack on his ego. "All the same, I still don't believe you're capable of waiting," I said with a grin.

His countenance fell. "Waiting? Why, I never touched her! What do you call that?" He made a terrible face that his false nose did nothing to compliment.

"I wouldn't call it _waiting_," I said, "except in the sense that one _waits _for the main course while he enjoys a variety of hors d'œuvre." He blinked at me. "One's hardly starving himself if he gives up only one dish. Where were you last night? And the night before? _And this morning_?"

He looked sheepish. He and I had picked up some girls of the corps de ballet together the night before. He'd been in a peculiar celebratory mood and had taken us all for meals and drinks and we wrapped up in a very posh suite that morning—but the point is that Erik hadn't exactly "waited" for the Daaé girl if you consider that he'd had countless others in the three months he'd been singing with her.

The look on his face revealed that he was absolutely stricken. "You're right," he managed. "Though it doesn't affect the bet."

"No, not as we agreed, no," I admitted.

"Good, good," he murmured distractedly.

"It's not as if you need the money," I replied in annoyance. Hiring a man to shine his shoes would have cost pennies compared to the ten-thousand francs, after all, and he had never been so particular about his shoes in the first place.

"Joseph does," he replied absently. Then he added, "I split the twenty-thousand with him so he wouldn't think it was charity. He wouldn't accept it if it was charity. Instead we played a harmless prank and divided our windfall between us."

"Harmless?" I could not criticize him for helping a friend, but the fact that he considered his exhortion harmless was inconceivable. "It's hardly harmless to Debienne and Poligny!"

Erik looked away and began to fidget as he had often done when we were children.

"What have you done?" I asked him. I narrowed my eyes at him and he seemed to wither beneath my gaze. "There's more to it, isn't there?"

"You'll get your share when the time comes," he muttered.

"I don't want a share in anything dishonest," I said, though I was already feeling the temptation, already feeling my spirit surrendering to my need for the material. "What have you done?" I asked again.

He sighed. "It is a monthly salary," he said tonelessly. Two hundred forty thousand francs! When I did not—_could_ not—respond, he added, "Joseph and I don't earn nearly enough for all our backbreaking labor. The additional twenty-thousand a month makes our compensation far more fair."

"Fair!" I could scarcely contain myself. Erik was exhorting more in a month than most people saw _in a year_. Indeed, in _three _months he would earn more than the _highest _paid of the _most celebrated _singers made _annually_.

"Honestly, I didn't expect them to agree to the entire amount. It was a starting point for negotiations. But they surrendered so easily when they realized I knew everything. After all, they never suspected that Poligny's wife would reveal—"

"Poligny's wife!" I must admit my indignation was mostly a show. I was, as always, impressed. I wondered how Erik had managed to get Poligny's wife to talk and I had plenty of ideas how he might have. I was just marveling at this when suddenly:

"Poligny is retiring," Erik said with a sober expression. "I blame myself."

* * *

**Begging:** As usual, I'm all about the reviews. Please kindly leave one. Thanks!


	11. Before the gala

**Author's Note:** You guys are the best. This being the last week of school, I went to work before 8 this morning and even though we sent the kids home at 3:30, I stayed on campus until just after 8 p.m. I got home tonight and there were all these lovely reviews waiting for me, it just made me so happy! I worked about the same number of hours yesterday too, and am likely to do so every day this week. BUT, as I'm a bit ahead on this story, I'm posting again, because I think I might have said that I'd post every day for a week. Whatever the case, here's the next post, because you guys are so totally cool and completely deserve it. Don't but be upset that it's substantially shorter than the others; this is just where the break naturally occurred. (And might I remind you that you received a double-posting yesterday?) Hang in there. We're getting to the really funny part soon. I promise you. Post #13 is hysterical. Post #15 is, too. (Matter of fact, 16 and 17 are pretty amusing as well. Maybe I've finally got this humor thing down pat!) Anyway, here's a post, because I love you all. Hang in there for a longer post soon.

**Disclaimer:** I own a really neat pair of skid resistant socks (which really come in handy in my all-tile house). I do not, however, own _The Phantom of the Opera._

**WARNING:** Avoid eating and drinking while reading this story as laugher may occur resulting in possible computer damage. You are hereby advised that neither BleedingHeartConservative, nor any of her ancestors, descendents, heirs, assigns, and/or persons related to her up to the fourth degree of consanguinity is responsible for damage to your computer (or your ancestors, descendents, heirs, assigns, etc., or _their_ computers...) caused by failure to heed this warning.

* * *

For a brief period after that, Erik scarcely returned to the flat. I had mistakenly expected that once the bet was won that would have been the end of the business with the little Daaé girl, but it was instead the beginning of something. He installed one of his trick mirrors in her dressing room. This one was an improvement over the one installed in the communal dancers' dressing area, for the Daaé mirror not only allowed him to look into the room, but also to pass into it by means of a pivot and a counterbalance. Of course, he _couldn't_ go through without her seeing him. On the other hand, with the bet over, there was no reason why she could _not _see him. He spent so much of his spare time behind that mirror debating when and how to go through it to appear to her that I wondered if the little chorus girl had entirely enchanted him, and began to suspect that he might actually feel some honest affection for her.

Meanwhile, I was lonely as hell. It drove me to La Sorelli more often than before, but the bed of a woman is a poor substitute for the companionship of a brother (and Erik and I were far closer than Darius, my actual brother, and I had ever been). I sought out Buquet one evening and together we mourned the loss of Erik. Had I not been so immersed in my sorrow at the situation surrounding Erik and Daaé, I might have noticed that Buquet cut a still more tragic figure than he had previously when he had first visited us at the flat on Rue de Rivoli, (which Erik had retained for us, due to my abject begging).

When I found him backstage after a long night, I did not really comprehend the depth of his depression; I thought his feelings a mere reflection of my own—sadness that we had lost time with Erik to Daaé. When I look back now, though, I see it differently and I blame myself. Perhaps if I _had_ noticed, something would have been different. Perhaps if I had said the right words, done the right thing… if only I had tried something, perhaps! I am consumed with guilt.

If I am consumed with my guilt, what must Erik, who knew him far more intimately, be feeling? If I cannot blink but I see the man's dead eyes, what torture must Erik live through? But it was not Erik's fault. It was not my fault. It is not our fault. _It is not._ The man made a choice, a choice in which we were powerless to stop him.

It was a mere few days before that choice that I asked him, "Do you think Erik has fallen in love with Christine Daaé?"

Joseph shrugged. "All the better for him if he has," he said at last. "There is nothing wrong with love." He uttered this in a tone of utter despondence that seemed oddly contrary to the words he said.

"Do you think he shall marry her?" I pushed him.

"All the better for him if he does not," he returned.

I sighed in relief. I did not want to lose my Erik to Christine Daaé any more than I wanted to lose the idea of Christine Daaé to Erik in permanent and irrevocable matrimony. "Good," I breathed aloud, pleased that Joseph agreed with me. It did not occur to me to ask Buquet how he reached that conclusion, and it certainly did not cross my mind to question him about his own situation, whether things were better or worse than before, whether the money he and Erik had obtained was sufficient to solve whatever burden he bore the time I saw him before, whether he now felt guilt or fear of discovery, or whether the ill-gotten gains had brought him more trouble than he might have imagined. I didn't think to ask him about his views on love, and I certainly did not realize at that moment that, perhaps most importantly, Buquet had not actually answered my questions.

Instead, I comforted myself with the thought that things would be back to normal soon enough. Buquet trudged home after that without suggesting we have a drink or raid the singers' lounge or take a quick peek at the dancers' mirror to see if any of the girls were still around. Buquet was a poor substitute for Erik; I made my way to Sorelli's dressing room and desperately tried to forget my loneliness.

When next Erik finally made it home to the flat instead of catching a few hours sleep in the house on the lake as he now did frequently, I complained about his long absence.

"I know, I know," he moaned in response. "I cannot continue this business about singing lessons and angels forever. It is absurd. Already she sings magnificently. With her newfound confidence, she should be able to sing anything thrown her way. Meanwhile, I am spending far too much time. I have already proven my point to you—it was nothing short of ecstasy, and yet on and on it goes! Angel of Music, singing lessons. Has she no concept of the time this consumes? We are finished with it. She sings at the gala. I will convince her. I shall convince _them_. She sings Marguerite. It is her best piece."

I was overjoyed! And yet….

"La Carlotta is singing Marguerite," I reminded him.

Erik shrugged nonchalantly. "No, she is not."

"But she is, Erik. You know it as well as I do. Debienne and Poligny said so themselves. Everyone expects it. Carlotta is—"

"Carlotta will be ill," Erik said softly.

"Erik!" I was horrified. Always we had played harmless pranks, but never had he ever harmed anyone directly.

He put a finger to his lips. "Trust me," he whispered. As always, I did.

* * *

**Begging:** Okay... you TOTALLY have to let me know what you thought of this post, even though it was short. Please?

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	12. Backstage

**Author's Note:** Okay, here's another chapter, mainly because I'm a glutton for reviews and the only way to get those is by posting. Also because part 13 is really fun and we'll never get there if I don't post part 12 first. So here you go.

**Disclaimer:** If I owed _The Phantom of the Opera_, I would not be sharing. (So, it's lucky for you all that I don't.)

**HUMOR WARNING:** As mentioned previously, eating and drinking while reading this story is hazardous to your computer and possibly your health. Thus, unless you are unequivocally certain of your ability to control your laughter, it is highly recommended that you do not eat or drink during this story. BleedingHeartConservative, her employees, agents, representatives, officers, and designees are not liable for consequences of readers' failure to heed this warning.

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The night on which Debienne and Poligny at last retired proved to be a terrible one, though it started off well enough. I spent the afternoon in the arms of La Sorelli and the early evening behind the dancers' mirror. Erik joined me briefly but excused himself soon after commenting that he _had_ to talk to Joseph Buquet before the performance started for once it did neither of them were likely to have the time. I nodded, scarcely having heard him, and he left. He was back a moment later, frantically insisting that he needed my help; resignedly, I left watching dancers fussing with tight-fitting undergarments.

I am certain I was no assistance to Erik however, for he found Buquet quite suddenly a few moments later without my help and he did not seem to wish to involve me in whatever quiet conversation they were having. Curious, I watched from a distance. Buquet sat upon some steps that were part of the scenery. Erik stood before him a moment. From that distance I could not hear what he said, but I am sure he spoke as I saw his lips move beneath his standard Opera-employee nose and moustache.

Buquet did not respond.

Erik bent low to where Buquet was sitting as though to look him in the eye. Then he sunk to his knees and took his older friend by the shoulders. Joseph continued to stare at a spot between his feet, never raising his head to look at Erik.

All about them sceneshifters were shouting to one another and set pieces were lifted with ropes on pulleys and brought back down again. It was a raging chaos with a single calm spot—Erik and Joseph—at the center of it. I wondered how they could hear one another at all. My vision was suddenly blocked by a building like a palace going by and I became disoriented. When it was gone again, my eyes sought them out for several seconds before I located them. The steps on which Buquet had been sitting were gone and he was standing. Erik stood as well, facing him, bent slightly as he was a bit taller.

Erik was animated, waving his arms about as he made some grand point. Buquet's end of the conversation wasn't nearly so emphatic. It consisted of his shaking his head from side to side all the while without lifting his eyes.

Curiosity got the better of me and I moved closer. Erik pounded a fist into his hand and shook his head far more vehemently. I caught a word or two: "Stupidest thing you could possibly do… won't solve anything… surely make things worse!"

Buquet stopped Erik by putting both hands upon his shoulders and staring at him intently. Then he shook his hand, clapped him lightly on the back and turned away. If he said anything, it was too low for me to hear. Erik stared after him, an expression like terror on his face. I am sure he would have gone after him in a moment, the way he pursued me on the street when we were boys, the way he pursued a lady who denied him, the way he never let anyone have the last word, but an instant later someone barked Erik's name and he whirled around. Instinctively, I backed away as some or another assistant to the managers' secretary's concierge's clerk or some such berated Erik as to why he was standing around appearing to do nothing

"Apologies," was all Erik said, and though he said it politely enough, I could tell by the set of his jaw that he was not pleased.

The over-dressed fellow went on to imitate the dumbstruck way in which Erik had been standing, staring vacantly, arms hanging loosely at his sides, horror-stricken expression upon his face, back slightly stooped. Had someone imitated me in such a fashion I would have had no trouble at all making sudden and painful contact between his face and my fist, but Erik has far more self-control than I. I noticed a mischievous gleam in his eye as he put on his best "timid" expression and murmured that he had seen something unusual and it had startled him, "after all these tales about a ghost at the Opera."

"You imbecile!" the other returned and the gleam in Erik's eye turned from mischievous to dangerous in an instant. "You superstitious fool! Back to work immediately with no more stupid excuses!" The other stormed away and Erik looked about for a moment as though to reorient himself. Then he grabbed hold of the nearest piece and dragged it in the direction it needed to go. I felt sorry for him as I watched him struggle alone with the heavy set piece, certain that he must be disheartened by being ordered about by someone clearly far less intelligent than he.

I wanted to help him, but feared my presence would bring him more trouble and as he went immediately from that set piece to the next, I decided he had entirely forgotten me. I wandered off, and went to find Darius. Perhaps I should have gone after Buquet, as Erik was obviously indisposed.

Erik joined Darius and me in the box that evening for the composers. I meant to speak with him between movements, but as Guiraud was finishing, I noticed his absence at my side, though I had not seen him leave.

After everything else, it unnerved me entirely and I remembered his promise: Carlotta will be ill. I left Darius alone in the box as Gabrielle Krauss sang the bolero from the _Vépres Sicilliennes_. Erik's protégée was to sing next several passages from _Romeo and Juliette_. La Carlotta was still expected to perform after that, singing from _Faust_ what Erik had insisted was Christine's "best" piece. I did not have time to wait if I expected to reach him before he reached Carlotta. I hurried toward the singers' dressing area.

By this time I knew the Opera well enough (though never as well as Erik) to slip down from the box to below ground and up again near the dancer's lounge without detection by anyone except perhaps Erik. This night I hoped to avoid even his knowledge that I was there, however, and I believe I was successful in that. I made it from there to Carlotta's dressing area easily.

I found Erik just as he was slipping silently into her room. I ducked into an adjoining room, slipped into the wardrobe, and waited. I heard Carlotta's voice in the hall as she greeted someone then announced her intention to retire to her room to prepare. A door opened and closed and Carlotta was within the room. A moment later her flawless voice filled the air and my skin turned to gooseflesh. I trembled. Then all went silent and I felt my stomach drop. Erik had asked me to trust him. What had he done? I pressed my ear to the wall and held my breath.

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**Shameless Begging:** I won't actually beg this time. I'll just say that the way real life has been going, fanfiction is really helping to keep me going, so if you don't mind leaving a thought or two, what you liked, what you didn't like, what you found funny, what you found disturbing, whatever, I'd really appreciate it. THANKS


	13. La Carlotta

**Author's Note:** Hi. Thanks to all who reviewed. I had an absolutely horrible, awful, terrible and unadulteratedly nasty day at work. Thus, posting this chapter, of which I am excessively over-proud, and getting your lovely feedback will not only be the highlight of my day but very likely the ONLY bright spot. Further, tomorrow and Saturday aren't shaping up to look much better. That having been said, I'll proceed directly to the story without further adieu.

**Disclaimer:** All I own is my overactive imagination....

**Humor Warning:** If you enjoy having food or drink splattered on your monitor and keyboard, you are hereby encouraged to eat, drink, and be merry at all once. Should you choose to do so, however, you must be advised that I am not responsible for such debauchery and you are entirely on your own to explain the mess to your family, friends, employers, crime scene investigators, FBI and CIA agents, and other governmental personnel.

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"Erik!" Carlotta's voice said in a breathy whisper. "What are you doing here?"

"I missed you," he crooned softly. "Oh, how I missed you!" His voice was muffled as he embraced her. "My darling, my darling!" I could envision Erik's embrace, not a dignified reaching of the arms around her delicate shoulders, but with his full body pressed against hers, his hips thrust against hers urgently, his hands straying to her derriere as he moaned to her, "Oh, how I missed you…."

"Oh, Erik," she murmured back. "I missed you as well. It has been too long!"

There was no sound then, but for a near-silent rustling for several moments, then a deep gasping breath from Carlotta.

"I _need_ you," Erik's voice urged, low and throaty.

"Yes!" she gasped, then an instant later in a voice more controlled: "Yes, Erik. Soon," she sighed. "Right—" she gasped "—after."

"Oh, God," he moaned in a voice filled with desperate desire. "After? After! Carlotta, I shall _die_—" If I didn't know better from experience that a man does not die of wanton desire, I should have entirely believed him. His voice was urgent, desperate, wretched.

"It is the retirement gala, Erik," she protested, her voice growing husky as well. "I cannot miss it!" She panted, "I… must… sing...." Her words turned to a moan of pleasure, but she fought for control one last time. "Please, Erik. Please!" she hissed. I could envision her pushing his hands away. "I go on shortly. Let me warm up now. It is just one short piece from _Faust_." Then she whispered urgently: "_I shall be right back_!"

His reply was nothing more than a moan, which she returned.

"But I must," she insisted unconvincingly. "I cannot—I—Ah!" Her breath hitched audibly and she surrendered. "But what shall I tell them?" she whimpered. Yes, he was in complete control now. I grinned to myself at his expertise.

"You are ill, my darling," he crooned. It is uncanny that without seeing him I could tell nonetheless what he had done. His hands now touched only appropriate areas—he delicately stroked her cheek, then his fingers wove themselves between hers while his other hand gently stroked her hair.

"Ill?" she echoed faintly. She was displeased. She wanted those hands back where they _had _been.

"I daresay you are feverish," he continued huskily. Surely his hands touched her forehead, then the place where her neck meets her shoulder, but nothing more. "You feel hot. Clammy. Truly, love, are you well? You are flushed, even." The girl moaned her yearning for him.

I pressed my fist against my mouth to silence my laughter. Oh, Erik! I thought. Would that I had your wit and even half your skill! Satisfied that he would not harm her, I left the closet and made my way towards the door when my movement was arrested by the sound of Carlotta's door opening and closing once again. I heard Carlotta in the hallway, her voice not at all the high clear coloratura soprano the audience would recognize but deeper, darker, in seductive mezzo tones. "Oh, Marie! Help me, please! I cannot sing tonight! I _cannot _sing!"

There was a murmur of, "Whatever is the matter?" from presumably Marie then Carlotta continued:

"I am ill. Tell them I am ill. I feel faint. No, no, I am fine here against the wall. Do not send for the doctor yet, but tell them I am ill and wish to lie down. I cannot sing tonight. Please! Oh God!" Then her door opened and closed abruptly yet again and this time I heard the sound of the key in the latch. "Oh, Erik," she moaned. "Please, Erik!"

"Yes," I heard him say. I hesitated at the door, wondering if the hallway was clear. A loud sound startled me and I leapt into the wardrobe once again, my heart pounding in rhythm with the singer's moans beyond the wall. I considered: If the sound were in the hallway, I was trapped. More likely Erik and Carlotta had knocked over an item in her dressing room in their exuberance, but I was not confident enough in that to emerge from the room. Instead I found myself confined to the closet for the duration of their rough lovemaking which lasted sufficiently long to ensure that I was prevented from hearing Christine Daaé triumph in singing Carlotta's portion from _Faust_ that evening.

Daaé was splendid, Darius told me later. Daaé was amazing. Like nothing anyone had ever heard before. Radiantly beautiful, a voice like an angel, yet a passion about her that could not be expected from one seemingly so innocent. Had I not known Erik's whereabouts intimately over the past few days, I would have suspected he'd taught her passion with more than just his voice. As it were, I wasn't entirely convinced that Daaé's performance could have bested the spectacular chorus of ecstatic cries I had enjoyed instead.

Darius reported to me that following her triumph the sweet child collapsed into the arms of some of the members of the chorus who carried her from the stage. I did not learn until the following day what happened in her dressing room after Erik managed at last to leave an exhausted and still panting but thoroughly sated Carlotta lying on the floor of her dressing room.

Seeking not to be seen, I did not follow him directly and as a result I lost track of him for a few moments. It was likely during that time that he visited with Christine Daaé and gave her that ridiculous line about her soul and angels weeping. I rather suspected he had rushed to her dressing room, so I headed in that direction. By the time I got there, however, the door was closed and all was silent.

I traipsed back up the hallway wondering where else Erik might have gone, debating as I went whether to go below for drinks with the others once I was reunited with them or if instead I should try to get another throw out of Sorelli after her speech; listening to Erik and Carlotta from the wardrobe had certainly frustrated me. Unsure of where Erik might be, I wandered about the Opera aimlessly for a bit.

No one stopped me. Over the course of the three months I'd trailed him during the Daaé girl's lessons I'd become commonplace enough at the Opera. People crossed themselves or crossed their fingers when I went by due to that viscous rumor that someone (read: "Erik") had started about my having the evil eye, but that was all. I had nothing to fear but the shade in the felt hat who was always apprehending me and dragging me to the manager's office where I spoke few words, imitated my mother's accent as best I could, and pretended to be confused. Thus far it had worked, but I wasn't too confident my luck would hold.

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**Shameless Begging:** Do I have to beg here? Really? You know you want to leave a review. You can think of nothing else but how leaving a review will satisfy you in every possible way, right? Go ahead. Indulge yourself. You've earned it.


	14. A Suicide

**Author's Note:** :authoritarian tone: Really, if you are not going to take my warnings seriously, bad things are going to happen. Truly. I was not kidding. It will not do anyone any good to have ruined computers. Far worse is the fact that inhaling bits of food or drink due to laughter is hazardous to your health. All that aside, today was the last day of school for the students who go to school where I work. That means I work only one more day, tomorrow, and then it is officially summer break. Of course, it's not really summer break because I'll be working somewhere else for the summer, but all the same, I get a couple weeks of a slightly less-grueling schedule. So (I hope) I can continue posting often and writing often enough that I don't get ahead of myself for posting this often.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _The Phantom of the Opera_. Or a Punjab lasso. Or anything else that might have been involved in this chapter.

_****IMPORTANT****_

**READ THIS WARNING!**

**LACK OF HUMOR WARNING:** This part is not at all funny. It is highly unlikely you will be amused; you may even feel disheartened, disillusioned, depressed, discouraged, dismayed, downcast, dispirited, disconsolate and a host of other unhappy words beginning with "d" after reading it. Should you find yourself experiencing these emotions, however, I suggest you simply deal with it. After all, it is merely fiction.

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As fate would have it, I located Erik before the shade saw me. I found him easily enough in a corridor below the stage, but he was heading in the wrong direction and carrying a ladder. Stranger still, he did not appear to see or hear me. I followed him, but he was moving at quite a pace despite his awkward burden.

When at last I apprehended him, he was not at all pleased to see me. I assumed he had somehow heard me in the wardrobe listening to his private encounter, though I couldn't see how that was possible considering the volume of sound on his side of the wall. I decided to play dumb. I mumbled some congratulations regarding the Daaé girl, who I'd heard murmurs about having been quite spectacular, but Erik's grim expression did not change.

"Go," he said. "I have work to do. It does not involve you."

I trotted at his side anyway. "I'll wait for you. It will be some time before Darius can leave the box anyway with all the crowds. We'll catch up with him when he does. I thought we'd go below for drinks after."

He ignored me entirely and continued walking, withdrawing, as he did so, the knife that was always in his pocket. He opened it and placed the blade between his teeth. I frowned in consternation.

Suddenly we emerged into a ground-level prop room where we came upon—horror!—a body of a man hanged from the rafters. I cried out, but Erik said nothing. He simply placed his ladder, climbed up, embraced the body, slashed the rope and returned. I recognized the dead face of Joseph Buquet. Erik threw the body over one shoulder and retreated into darkness once again. I followed, too numb to speak.

A level below Erik placed the body upon the ground and dragged it backwards by the arms to the next staircase.

Two levels down I found my tongue and asked Erik why the poor man's body should have to endure the abuse of being dragged down yet another flight.

His voice was flat and emotionless. "Silence. He must be found in the third cellar. He is a victim of the Opera ghost."

I let this thought sink in for a moment while Erik struggled with the body from whose neck he had not even removed the fatal rope. A victim of the Opera ghost? Such a thing was far beyond pranks. He had gone too far. "Erik!" I cried. "Stop! He's dead! How can you exploit his—"

He whirled on me so fast I startled and fell silent. He reached out and grabbed me by my collar in his bony hand and shook me until I was sure I could hear my bones rattle. I could not think clearly but I recall a sense of amazement at not only the strength in that emaciated arm but also the way he gripped me; he had never assaulted me so before. He pulled me close, holding me by a fistful of collar and cravat, and looked directly into my eyes. In over twenty years I have known Erik I have never seen him look so. His eyes went dark while his usual pallor left him and his skin tinged a dark red.

"Damn it, Rasheed!" he spat in my face, and I felt my blood turn cold. He had not called me by the name my mother had given me since the summer I turned fifteen. Now he did so at full volume in a voice that trembled and roared at once. "How _dare_ you!" His voice was not his own, his words made incoherent by intense emotion. "You would have them find him a suicide? Who shall bury him then? And _where_?" He dropped me and turned away trembling so severely that it terrified me.

"Erik," I rasped.

"Leave me!" he thundered back. I obeyed. I crept away.

But I couldn't go far. I watched him struggle with the body a moment. He tried to hoist it to his shoulder again but held it only a moment before his knees gave way. Undaunted, he arranged the body and prepared to resume dragging it. I mustered the courage to edge back.

"Let me help," I managed softly.

He relented easily. "Get his legs," he choked. I obeyed, trying not to look at his face but finding my eyes inexorably drawn back to his, unable to ignore his rapid blinking. In darkness his eyes shone, bright and moist. Suddenly he ordered, "Put him down," dropped the poor man's arms abruptly, and turned from me to press both hands over his face. He remained that way but a moment. When he turned back to me, he was perfectly composed. He pointed at the man's arms, soundlessly ordering me to change places with him. I obliged and he moved to the legs of the corpse as I reached for the dead arms.

Erik had his back toward me now as he walked, bent-backed down the corridor with a leg on either side of his narrow hips. I could no longer see his face.

He kept it turned from me even when we reached the place on the third level where old set pieces are stored. He did not look at me as he told me, "Go now. You will not want to watch this." Then, when I hesitated: "_Please._"

I hesitated. "What are you going to do?"

He heaved a heavy sigh and pointed up. "I have to re-hang him," he said in a horrified tone. I looked at the dead body, then back at Erik, whose face was pale and twisted in a fashion not at all like I have seen before. "Then, after they have discovered him, I have to come back and take him down again, to ensure no one holds the rope as evidence." He looked at the country farmhouse set piece, the rafters, the dead man, everywhere but at my eyes. Then he withdrew his watch, looked more disturbed still, put the rope in his teeth and began to climb up the farmhouse set to the rafters above.

Before he climbed out of reach I stepped closer and took the rope from his mouth. He shot me a grateful look, said nothing, and climbed upward. When he reached the place above the body, I threw him the rope, which he passed around the rafters and tossed down to me again before leaping from the rafter to my side. He withdrew his watch, rapidly replaced it again and held out his hands for the rope urgently. "Quickly!" he hissed.

"Go on," I said. "Go do whatever else you must do."

"It is a mere run across a hallway. That will take but an instant. Then I must send someone on an errand that will bring him here to find..." He waved his hand at the corpse. "He will be found. It must look like a murder. And once he is seen and it is reported, the rope must vanish."

"Go," I said. "I'll ensure it does."

He nodded, glanced back at the body, removed his hat for a moment and then hurried away calling over his shoulder "Don't be here when he is discovered, of course."

"Go," I told him again.

He went.

As I heaved with all my strength to hoist the body up to be a believable height, I watched his retreating form. If I am not mistaken, he had removed his nose and was peeling loose his moustache. What business could he possibly have without them, I wondered. I tied the rope to a bit of scenery easily within my reach, stood beneath the man who had once been my rival for Erik's friendship and uttered a brief prayer for his soul. Poor Joseph Buquet!

I tried not to think about what I had just done as I headed toward the path I knew my brother would take from the box. There would definitely be drinks tonight, I vowed, but _not _below. I had had enough darkness to last me a lifetime. I found Darius who informed me that I had missed perhaps the greatest operatic triumph ever. I told him he had missed far more than that and began dragging him towards the dancers' lounge. Much as I wanted to put distance between the Opera and myself immediately, I knew we should not leave Erik at such a time. Along the way I heard murmurs among the crowd that a man had been found hanging on the third floor between a set piece and some discarded scenery from Roi de Lahore moments earlier.

"Meet me at the dancers' lounge," I hissed to Darius. I rushed below to dispose of the unfortunate rope as Erik had insisted before whoever had discovered the body could lead workers back to it to cut it down. I untied the rope, lowered Joseph to the ground to slip the noose from his neck. I could not bring myself to close his bulging eyes, but I wrapped the rope around and around myself and buttoned my jacket closed to conceal it as I stole away.

I made it back to the lounge a moment after the managers did. I caught a glimpse of Erik—unmasked and _un-nosed_ in public!—listening as Sorelli began her speech. Worried, I watched him carefully. He simply stood as anyone stands, arms hanging loosely at his sides and listening politely. Then came the shriek. He winced at the sound. I scanned the crowd to see from whence it came and my eyes landed upon two young ballerinas clutching each other tightly. When I looked back to Erik my eyes met empty space surrounded by men who looked about and appeared to be laughing. I grabbed Darius and hurried in the direction I thought Erik might go. I did not find him however and eventually we resigned ourselves to returning to the flat on Rue de Rivoli without him.

From the gossip I heard around town later, it would seem he proceeded to the manager's farewell banquet where (wearing a different nose, moustache and eyebrow set than his scene-shifter character did) he announced to all that Buquet's death was not a natural suicide. This news was not at all well received as many had not been aware that Buquet was dead at all.

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**Shameless Begging:** Please, please, please?


	15. The train to Perros Guirec

**Author's Note:** Hi again. Sorry for the couple of days off. I do believe that after today we'll be going back to once a week posting on Sundays, but I missed yesterday, so this will have to count for that. I'd stick with once a day because I love it so much, but the details of all that occurs after this requires studying the Leroux timeline carefully and working ahead a bit as Leroux doesn't tell it all in chronological order. Additionally, I've got a LOT going on in real life that I hadn't exactly anticipated and properly planned for. Oh darn. So... it slows me down a bit because there's so much else to do. That having been said, I'll still be correcting errors and typos today in all the previous chapters, and I'd still LOVE to hear from you. I'm NEVER too busy for a short email or PM.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own POTO but I DO own this six pack of Coors light... Hmmmm... What do you suppose I should do with it?

**HUMOR WARNING:** _(i.e., suddenly, the story got funny again, even though the author's life didn't!)_ **Avertissement! Advertencia! Avvertimento! Warnung! Предупреждение! Waarschuwing! Aviso!**

Reading this story while eating or drinking is known to the State of California to cause coughing, choking, sputtering and gagging in addition to damage to keyboards and monitors of computer systems. Thus, you should use extreme caution in eating or drinking while reading this story. BHC and her predecessors, successors, assignees, designees, and anyone acting in active or inactive concert with BHC, anyone reasonably contemplated to be acting on behalf of BHC including those who willfully misrepresent acting on behalf of BHC are not responsible for damages to person, PC, or other property. Wait. I take back that last part. Those who willfully misrepresent acting on my behalf _can_ be held liable. After all, who cares about them, and it serves them right.

In addition, this story turns on a dime. We are not responsible for whiplash, bi-polar episodes, or eddies in the space-time continuum you may feel do the abrupt shift in moods between posts. Should you feel disturbed enough to require therapeutic intervention, individual counseling is available at a rate of $85.00 an hour. Most insurance, including medicaid, is accepted. Please contact our office for a referral.

**Story note:** Oh my. Erik is just plain evil, isn't he?

* * *

Chaos. That's the only word for what ensued immediately after Buquet's death. The old managers, who had so readily agreed to Erik's twenty thousand francs request, were gone. New managers were in their place and Erik had no arrangement with them. All the same, it shouldn't matter, I thought, as Joseph Buquet's debts would surely have died with him and Erik had no obligation (or any interest as far as I could ascertain) in the widow who had made Joseph's life so hard. The tragedy of Buquet's suicide combined with the Erik's annoyance with the new management had me absolutely convinced that our Opera romp had come to an abrupt end, so I was not at all surprised when early in the morning two days later Erik informed me that we were to be on the first train to Perros-Guirec.

"Sure," I replied, getting up to pack a change of clothing as soon as "take a trip" had escaped his mouth without waiting to hear where it was that we were going. After all, nothing tied me to Paris, I was still without employment and my only regular companion, other than Erik, was Sorelli. Erik would travel with me, and Sorelli might miss me in my absence and love me stronger if I returned.

Erik disappeared into his room and reemerged stuffing a black hooded cloak into an already over-full travel bag. "Let us depart at once," he urged, pushing me toward the door, where, apparently a carriage was already waiting. I protested when he ordered the driver, "To the Opera."

"You promised Perros, Erik," I said, annoyed.

"Yes, Perros. Indeed. I must simply leave instructions," he said. "I'll be but a moment."

It was true. I cannot say for certain to whom he left instructions, but I suspect, from what occurred while we were gone, that they were for whomever played the Opera ghost in his absence, as well as for the managers. As for Erik himself, when he returned to me carrying a violin, I mistook him for a member of the orchestra and opened my mouth to tell him that the carriage was already taken and bound for the train station, for I did not immediately recognize him.

He had changed into light-colored traveling clothes. His nose was wider and flatter than usual, his eyebrows and moustache dark and neat, and his thin patchy hair covered by quite an elegant toupee several shades darker than his natural hair which his everyday choice of wig matched to avoid mishaps. He waved a broad-brimmed hat at the driver as he ignored my protests and climbed over me without waiting for me to recognize him. By the time my mind caught up with my eyes and assured me yes, it is Erik under all that nonsense, the coach was already moving down the boulevard at a swift trot.

We arrived shortly before the train's departure and as we made our way at a rapid pace, I noticed that Erik lifted his hat and greeted an elegantly dressed young woman. I paused and turned back to smile at her, but she was facing the other way and did not see me. It was just as well anyway, I noted, as she traveled alone.

I did not realize until we were in our compartment that the young woman was Christine Daaé.

Erik spoke to her twice during the trip. Disguising his voice with a peculiar foreign accent I did not recognize, he inquired politely as to where she was going, commented on how unusual it was for her to be traveling alone, wondered whether her husband would be meeting her at her destination and so forth. As far as I could tell, her answers were entirely truthful and she did not notice anything suspicious about Erik. He referred to me as his valet and as I saw no way I could object without appearing to be an inappropriately behaved valet, I remained quiet. The second time they spoke, Erik happened to casually mention his father somehow, and so it was revealed that Christine was on her way to the grave of her own father, at which news Erik was appropriately apologetic and sincere.

It didn't take much to get the little Swedish singer talking. Erik leaned close and said something to the effect of, "Oh, how terribly tragic for you. You were close, one can easily see," and Christine was suddenly relaying all the details of her idyllic past traveling with her father, singing in churches and at weddings, sleeping in barns, laying beside on another in the straw because in the early years, they could not afford a room at the inn. At that, the hint of a smile crept to Erik's lips, though the Daaé girl did not notice it. No one could have noticed it, save one who knew Erik very well.

Christine continued: "Even later, though, when we were provided for by the professor and his wife, we always declined a room at the inn."

"Humility shall always be rewarded," Erik replied and I rolled my eyes like any valet might when his impious and self-serving employer is looking the other direction. Mademoiselle Daaé did not notice me. She told Erik that her father was the greatest violinist in the world, despite the fact that he had never been visited by the Angel of Music.

Erik nodded sagely and I scarcely swallowed my annoyance. Then, when he uttered, "But _you_ have been," in a tone that was decidedly not a question, it was all I could do not to cuff him across the back of the head.

The girl smiled sweetly but genuine surprise shone in her eyes. "You can _tell_?" she asked at once.

"Oh, yes," replied Erik. "One can always ascertain such a thing easily. There can be no doubt about it at all."

"Have you heard him as well?" she asked, incredulous.

Erik shook his head and put on a sad expression. "Oh, no," he said softly. "Most certainly not. I am not a musician myself."

"But your violin," she began, her eyebrows arcing curiously and creating an unpleasant little furrow on the otherwise unmarred skin between them. Then she cast her eyes downward. "Forgive me," she said softly. "I am mistaken. I thought that I saw you carrying a violin earlier."

Caught.

Or so I thought.

"A gift," Erik said simply, "for my nephew. I hope he likes it. I know so very little about music, but it was quite expensive—which is why I carried it myself rather than trusting it to my valet—so I trust it is a good instrument. Unless I have been cheated." He faked a worried expression for a moment. "Would you—" he began haltingly, then "But no. It is inappropriate to ask a lady on the way to visit her father's grave for favors."

Christine had already seized upon his sad countenance and took it upon herself to cheer him. She shook her head emphatically. "What is it," she asked. "Say first and at least allow me to decide."

Erik pretended to struggle with deciding whether to ask the question or not, looking incredibly uncomfortable but at last casting the discretion to the young lady. "Would you be so kind as to examine it for me, perhaps? If it is not too much to ask. I would not ask it, except my nephew is so very dear to me. I haven't any children, you see, and as he has lost his father—my only brother—and you are such an expert, having been trained by your father and visited by the Angel and all. But if it is a bother, please—" He waved a hand dismissively. "Forget I brought it up."

"Please," she returned and caught his gloved hand in both of hers. "It is no bother at all." She would have looked intently into his eyes then, but he turned his face away. One thing Erik has never been able to disguise is his eyes; they are quite an unusual color. He gets by well enough pulling hat brims low when he can manage it, and most women don't spend their time trying to look into his eyes anyway. Christine Daaé, however, is quite another story. She was sitting so very close to him and in her innocence it hardly surprises me that she would focus upon a man's eyes rather than any other part. Erik turned away in haste and snapped his fingers at me. I wanted to choke him at that moment, but what could I do? I played the valet and handed him his—er, his nephew's—violin.

I watched Christine Daaé closely. She kept her eyes trained on Erik's face as though waiting for his eyes to be revealed to her until at last he raised a hand to his eyes momentarily and murmured what might have been "Forgive me… my brother… we, too, were close…" where upon she turned her eyes to the violin case and left them there while Erik's hands gracelessly lifted the instrument from its case and handed it to her.

"Oh…my," she said, her eyes bright, her fingers lightly fingering the body of the instrument. She turned it over carefully in her hands, looked closely at the polished wood off the body, the neck, the scroll. "Was this built by Vuillaume?" she managed at last.

"Mm? Yes. That's what they told me when they sold it to me," Erik said tonelessly. "Is that good?"

"Yes," Christine replied. Then, when Erik did not look entirely convinced she laid her hand upon his and said more vehemently, "_Yes._" Then, "Your nephew will be quite pleased. It is one of the finest instruments in all of France—perhaps in all in the world. I only hope he does it—and you—justice.

"Oh, he will, he will," Erik said, nodding vehemently. "He is a good boy." He sighed heavily and lifted the violin from Christine with his right hand. Then he took the bow in his left and placed it awkwardly as though to play.

"No," she said with a small laugh. "This way," she took the bow from him and guided his left hand to the neck of the violin, "if you are right handed," and gently nudged the instrument into position beneath his chin.

"I _am_ right handed, but this seems a bit awkward," he told her with a stupid expression, and she laughed again, a high tinkling sound, like bells.

"It may seem so at first, but you will find you need your stronger hand to bow," she insisted kindly. "Like this." I watched as she carefully positioned his left hand, then took his right hand in hers and guided the bow slowly over an open string, closing her eyes at the richness of the sound as she did so. Then her eyes snapped open and she drew her hands away abruptly. "Like that," she said.

Erik's face was a mixture of puzzlement at the curious holding of the instrument and wonder at the lovely sound that erupted while he was still holding it himself. "Oh," he breathed in a tone of gratitude and amazement, looking at the bow in his hand as she drew her hands away. "That was magnificent." He met her eyes for an instant. "_Thank _you."

"It is nothing," she said softly.

The train came to a halt then, thankfully for me, for I'm not sure I could have endured another moment of their disgustingly "innocent" conversation. Mademoiselle Daaé looked up suddenly and uttered "Oh!" at once. She got to her feet awkwardly and apologized.

"Please," Erik said, "if you would permit me…." He escorted her from the train with a meaningful glance back at me. I gathered our belongings, including Erik's nephew's violin, which Erik had carelessly left on a seat, and hurried to the door of the train. Before I could disembark, however, I heard Erik telling Christine that Perros was not our destination. I moved away from the doorway and watched out the window as Erik bade farewell to his "new" acquaintance and pretended to prepare to re-board the train. She was gone in an instant, apparently having forgotten us both immediately. A moment later Erik seized me by the lapels. "Come!" he insisted. "What are you waiting for?"

A thousand insults I wished to fling at him an instant earlier, and yet I could think of nothing to say. I let him lead me numbly to the platform where he ushered me behind a partition to hide from view until Christine was completely gone. "You _see_ how innocent she is?" he whispered.

* * *

**Begging:** Usually I still put this here because it's my tradition, but today I really am begging. Could everyone who reads please send me a quick note? Things have been very, _very_ bad since about this time last week, and they're showing no signs of getting better any time soon. I know that not everyone who reads wishes to leave a review every chapter, but it would be nice to hear from everyone occasionally just to say hi and send me a few words of encouragement. Thanks in advance. Hope to hear from you. (BTW, another author I talked to the other day mentioned having 70 hits and only 50 reviews and I remember thinking "That's _good_ actually! How does one even get 71.4% of their readers to review?" At the time, I thought it was sort of a long-shot, but today I'm asking "Can you at least tell me that you're reading so I know you're there?"

_I'd ESPECIALLY like to know: Does anyone here know anyone like Erik? I do. I've known more than one, to be honest, but none QUITE so endearing as dearest Erik._

* * *


	16. Poker Face

**Author's Note:** Hi everyone! Hope you all had a great week. Life is a bit better here this week. The real life person who inspired this Erik continues to behave inappropriately and not at all as endearingly as Erik, but that's okay because it just gives me more and more ideas. Meantime, thanks to all who reviewed. I hope you enjoy this chapter. Please do let me know.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _The Phantom of the Opera_ because wishing does not make it so. This story is based almost entirely on the original POTO by Gaston Leroux with influences of Tirso de Molina's _Don Juan_ and Oscar Wilde's _The Importance of Being Earnest._

**Humor Warning:** I continue to discourage eating and drinking during this story. If you fail to heed my warnings, too bad for you. I won't answer for anything!

* * *

I may not have mentioned previously that it was January. That's one small truth I told the journalist because... well hell! He could have found that out by asking others. I find lies are most effective when they include portions of the truth. Anyway it was late January and if I had thought that it was cold in Paris I was a fool; it was _far_ colder in Perros. It was too cold for snow to fall, but that which had previously fallen covered the ground and when the wind blustered, drifted silent and white all around us. I followed Erik, leaving errant footprints in the virgin snow.

There is but one inn in the town of Perros, the Inn of the Setting Sun. I expected we would stay there and grew excited when at last it came into view, but Erik wagged a finger at me; he led me, instead, to the cemetery.

"We can't stay _there,_" he said of the Inn of the Setting Sun in a harsh whisper. "I told her we weren't stopping at Perros." Before I could protest that he should wear one of his other disguises he pointed out "How would I disguise _you_?"

An icy wind whipped around us and I pulled my scarf over my mouth and nose. "You didn't have to talk to her," I groused, annoyed at chill and still more disturbed at the prospects of spending the night with the dead. "She wouldn't have noticed us if you hadn't said a word."

"Oh but I did need to speak to her. I needed to learn the true reason she came here."

"And what did you learn?"

He shrugged. "Whatever the reason is that she invited the de Chagny boy here, she didn't lie about her father's death or his grave. She didn't lie about where she was going, either. It means perhaps she didn't lie about the boy. And yet it would seem he isn't here...."

"She invited le Vicomte de Chagny _here_?" It seemed terribly odd for _her _to invite _him _anywhere. Still more strange was her choice of locale. If she wished to meet with the Vicomte alone, there were so many more suitable locations.

"At this point, I suppose she did it merely to anger me."

"Anger _you_?" As far as I knew, they still hadn't met face to face.

Erik rolled his eyes impatiently. "Not me, _myself_," he said in an annoyed tone. "The Angel of Music."

I frowned. "Right," I said, though I really had no idea. I had not followed Erik's Angel of Music tale closely and did not know the details.

I didn't realize it, but we walked past old Daaé's grave just then. Erik turned abruptly and led me to a mausoleum, the door of which he pushed open just wide enough to permit himself entry. He stepped through easily. "She claims he is nothing to her but an old friend. Still, I am not convinced."

I squeezed myself through the space and continued our conversation in a sarcastic tone. "Right," I said. "And you care whether it's the truth or not why?"

He glanced over his shoulder and ignored my question. "She told me she was going to her father's grave. Then she told me the same thing again when she did not know I was me. You see? And we came here, and sure enough," he pointed through the door to old Daae's grave then. "Voila." He threw down his bag in a corner near a pile of bones and I shivered. He continued, undeterred. "She would have no cause to lie to a perfect stranger. I had my doubts about her father, even, and the violin. But you see, she has proved herself today. She is an honest girl."

"Great," I muttered. Just what I needed. A night in a cemetery and an honest girl. I looked around in horror. This was surely the setting of some ghastly novel, and here I was, within it. I am not a superstitious man, but what good can come of spending a night with the dead? Honestly, I could have been in the flat enjoying a drink with Darius. Better still, I might have been visiting with La Sorelli. Instead I was roaming about a cemetery and breaking into crypts with Erik while the Comte de Chagny was no doubt between the sheets with my best prospect. "You intend to sleep _here_?" I griped.

He grinned at me. "Why? Are you sleepy?"

"No! Not a bit. I don't think I could sleep a wink in this place."

"Good. Then come on." Erik dragged me by the lapels to the door and pushed me out into the cold evening air. He pulled me by my coat once again through the cemetery and out the other side. "There's plenty here to do…"

Erik located the only tavern in town and ushered me into it—but not before reminding me that we were to act as though we had already been drinking all afternoon. We played inebriated as we sidled up to the bar and ordered in slow, slurred voices. It took only a moment for the other men present to notice us and just a moment more before we were to invited to join a card game that was being played in a dark corner.

I fell, intentionally but believably, as I attempted to get into my chair, and Erik helped me deliberately into the chair. "Forgive us," he slurred. "My friend knows no limits, and I fear I have allowed him to influence me too much tonight."

"Apologies," I murmured with a nod at the group. Then I turned to Erik, cupped my hand as though to whisper and told him too loudly, "I don't know if we should play. I feel a bit ill."

Erik waved a hand at me. "You'll feel fine soon as you get another drink in you." He smiled innocently at the dealer. "We're in."

The men glanced at each other and smiled patronizingly. Oh, those poor fools, I thought, putting my head in my hands and moaning as though it ached.

I played sick for three rounds. Erik won twice and lost once. I excused myself to step outside, pretended to be violently ill, and staggered back in, wiping my mouth with my sleeve. I gave Erik a practiced half-hearted grin, and he clapped me heartily on the back. He lost his next two rounds to me, then we let the dealer and the fellow to his left each win once to avoid suspicion.

We continued this way well into the night depriving the men of enough money to pay for our drinks and our train ride and have a little left to spare until Erik suddenly announced he'd had too much to drink and needed to lie down.

"No, no," I insisted. "You'll be fine. Let's get you one more."

"No, please…" he implored me faintly. "I need some air." He stood and swayed mightily. I looked at him closely in the dim light. He _did_ look a little green. He raised a hand to his mouth and for an instant he looked for all the world as though he would vomit right there in the midst of them; then he swooned and I caught him in my arms.

"Damn!" I yelled aloud. I muttered harsher curses under my breath between apologies to the men and dragged Erik by his armpits out the door. Outside the door Erik got to his feet on his own while I slapped one hand lightly against the other as one might do to an unconscious person's cheek and called to him as though to wake him up. A moment later we ran.

If the men within came outside to ensure Erik was well or to call our cheat, we were far gone by the time they did.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** Oh, it's only once a week, and it only takes a moment. If you're at a loss for words, just tell me your favorite or least favorite part. Thanks!


	17. Perros Cemetery

**Author's Note:** Greetings, all. It will be Wednesday in less than an hour, and as I offered to do semi-weekly posts

**Disclaimer:** I (still) don't own POTO. (Damn.)

**Warning:** This chapter is philosophical rather than humorous. Much like tragedy needs comic relief, I think at times comedy might need some seriousness-relief, so here's a bit of that before the next roaringly funny thing happens. My apologies to those who were really hoping for outrageously funny. I promise there's at least a bit of humor in the NEXT chapter.

* * *

Erik led me, laughing, to the cemetery. The silvery near-full moon hung above us and reflected off the snow making our path back to the crypt bright. Erik was careful to push the cemetery gate closed and we stumbled back to where we had stashed our belongings. We were not so drunk as we had pretended, but I had had quite a few drinks and the mausoleum did not bother me now, nor did the cold. I sunk to the floor and stretched out feeling warm and content. Erik found a ledge and climbed upon it. Then, tucking the bag containing his cloak beneath his head, he pulled off his nose, tucked it in his pocket and closed his eyes. Subdued as I was by the liquor, I easily ignored how suited he appeared to the setting and drifted off to sleep.

I felt the need to sleep well into the afternoon, but Erik had awakened before me and was gone. I waited, noticing that he'd left his traveling disguise behind. Where could he possibly go without a nose and moustache, I wondered, or did he have another in his pocket?

He brought me lunch when he returned. He informed me that he had been to mass and to the Inn of the Setting Sun, following Christine. The boy had arrived, and Christine had recognized him, spoken with him, and run from him. She'd shut herself up in her room. Without secret passageways and his special mirrored windows, he hadn't any method for spying on her, so he'd followed the boy instead, but not before buying a suitable lunch for us with a bit of his winnings from the night before.

I sat up and looked at him. Indeed, he was disguised entirely differently from the day before. Had Christine encountered him, she was like not to have recognized him as the man on the train who had purchased a violin for his nephew. All the same, he said she hadn't laid eyes on him and it was just as well.

It was cold this afternoon without the warmth of alcohol, so Erik spread his cloak on the stone floor and we picnicked in the crypt sitting close together.

In the early evening we briefly left the cemetery. We climbed a hill and to walk along the moor and look at the sea as the sun set. We were there but a very brief time, however, for another man approached us and we hurried back to the cemetery, for Erik observed that it was Raoul de Chagny. We returned to the crypt where I wrapped myself in my coat and drifted to sleep easily.

When next I woke, feeling refreshed, it was nearly dark. Erik sat against a wall holding his violin but playing nothing. The space beneath his eyes was darker than usual, and his eyelids were heavy.

"Go to sleep if you're tired," I advised sagely.

Erik glared at me. "I am not," he insisted. "Besides, as she is honest, I must be awake to play for her at the stroke of midnight." I knew he could not be persuaded otherwise. Erik may lie frequently about the past, but in the present, he always keeps his promises.

I withdrew my watch. "Night falls early in January," I said. "You've quite some time until it's midnight."

He looked impatient and exhausted at the same time.

"Go on," I said reassuringly, my hand upon his shoulder. "If you are sleeping when the church clock strikes eleven, I'll wake you."

He nodded gratefully and closed his eyes.

I sat, now awake and lucid, among the dead bodies, watching over my friend who looked enough like the dead not to appear conspicuous as he slept among them. It is the most morbid thing I have done to date, but somehow, I was not bothered by it in Erik's presence. I knew no harm could come to me as long as he was present.

As night fell and the light faded I watched my friend sleep and wondered as I looked at him how the rest of the world saw him. What _did _the ladies see in Erik, I wondered. Was it truly pity? And how did Erik see himself? He willingly admitted he was not handsome, even joked about his strange features. Was there insecurity behind his many conquests? Could it be blamed on his appearance? And if so, what was my own excuse? Or was Erik simply the most honest man I knew in terms of admitting his desires to himself and stopping at nothing to achieve them? Our lives were not exactly "normal" if you considered that normal men married, but then, I was not sure I wanted a normal life with only one, or even two, women. I had always been certain that Erik could not bear such a life, but now I wondered, just for a moment if it was an option had he desired it.

I had long suspected there was not alive a woman Erik would marry, but now I wondered was there a woman who would marry Erik once she had truly seen him? With a different disguise for every woman, he could assure himself a warm bed every night, but a wife.... A wife would eventually get curious or perhaps stumble upon a collection of noses by accident. Or he would sleep late one morning, or fall ill. Such a thing could not be kept secret forever from someone who knew him well.

Perhaps he knew he could not have a woman entirely and fully so he settled for what he could get. Worse yet, perhaps he sought to dispossess them of what he thought other men would innately value—or to simply deprive other men of it. Perhaps Erik would have thumbed his nose, had he had one, at all the men of the world saying, "Yes, you can have their love if you can win it, but I have had their passion first. Or perhaps he sought to give them such pleasure that another man could never compare. Perhaps he did it not for his own pleasure, but to punish the world….

Or perhaps I project my own emotions onto the man. There has been nothing in his countenance to suggest that he felt this way, nothing about his behavior save his seeming inability to commit that suggested there way any unhappiness in his soul.

Was there, I wondered, a woman alive who would marry _me_? Perhaps _I_ took what I could get and thumbed my nose at the world.

I peered at Erik in the darkness and thought of his light-hearted manner, his confidence, his kind gestures, all the help he had provided me. I thought of Joseph Buquet's untimely end by his own hand and wondered whether my life would have turned out similarly had I not been influenced by Erik as early as I was. I remembered hauling the rope to lift Joseph's dead body by the neck and I remembered that I had not gone after him when Erik could not.

I stared in darkness at the place where I knew Erik slept peacefully and I wept.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** Review please? (Also, for those of you who like my one-shots but don't have me on author alert, I posted something else this evening. In my opinion it's totally uncharacteristic of me, but if you're willing to check it out, it's here: wwwDOTfanfictionDOTnet/s/5143645/1/Angel_of_Music. Thanks.


	18. The Violin of Death

**Author's Note:** Okay... I posted Sunday and then Wednesday. And now it's Thursday, and I'm just dying to share the next little bit with you because I HATE to leave anything on a sad note, which is exactly what I did on Wednesday. So, I'm bringing you this next little bit to gratify myself, but I hope it's good for you, too, because... well... otherwise, what would be the point.

**Disclaimer:** If I said I DID own POTO, would Gaston Leroux rise from the dead to sue me? Because, you know, legal injunctions aside, that would be sort of cool because then I could ask him "Okay, when you used the word 'sentait' as in 'une main que je sentis sur mes leveres sur ma chair.... etc qui sentait la mort', did you mean Erik's hands SMELLED of death, or that they FELT of death? Because, you know, that was a very bad word-choice in French, since it could mean either. Oh yeah... and Erik's mother never KISSED him or never HUGGED him? Because... well... embrasse... again... a bit vague there with the word choice. And did Erik tell Christine that after five days she would learn not to fear him? Or not to see him?" So, you know what let's do? Let's see what happens. Okay... Here goes: I own The Phantom of the Opera. ::waits:: I'll let you know when he shows up.

**Humor Warning:** Okay peeps, we're dealing with funny again, at least a LITTLE bit, so all warnings are back in full effect. No eating. No drinking. I don't recommend chewing gum or chewing anything else. I'm not responsible if you fail to heed warnings. Honestly, I don't think I'm that funny, but since you all have said that maybe I am, assume I will be again here and be careful. Use extreme caution. We don't want any deaths or anything, right?

* * *

The church clock chimes eleven o'clock. I place my hand softly on Erik's shoulder and wait. A moment later I grip his shoulder and shake. He comes to life silently, simply opening his eyes and glancing up at me. A moment passes, then another. He meets my eyes. I smile. He smiles in return and closes his eyes again. I slide to the stone beside him and wait.

A quarter past. The clock chimes the quarter hour. By now Erik and I are leaning sleepily against one another. I nudge him with my elbow. He nods, silently and shifts. He rubs his eyes. I close mine.

I wake when the clock chimes half past. I wake with a start. Have I forgotten to wake Erik? But he is no longer beside me. He moves through the crypt as silently as the dead. He locates his violin, strokes the strings fondly, fingers the bow. His touch is almost loving, and I marvel that those hands have not yet caressed Christine Daaé. I smile to myself. I have forgotten my jealousy. I want him to touch her. I am sleepy and sentimental. I want him to enjoy her thoroughly because he is my friend and I feel endless gratitude toward him. Perhaps I will never be truly happy; I want Erik to experience what I fear I may not. I feel my eyelids begin to close again as I imagine her reaction to his long lithe fingers. An instant later I tear myself from sleep. We have plans for midnight, and I do not want to miss this; I force myself to get to my feet and walk about the crypt.

By a quarter to midnight I am fully awake. I hear the three quarters chime. Erik tucks his violin under his arm and creeps from our hiding place to the nearby ossuary. I remain inside lest I be seen.

Time passes.

* * *

A quarter of an hour passed dreadfully slowly as I waited there at the door of the crypt peering out at the moonlit cemetery.

Mademoiselle Daaé arrived. Her white form glided through the moonlight like a ship across a sea of snow. She moved to her father's grave, which she had previously covered with roses, and knelt. She crossed herself and bowed her head to pray. I gazed at her lovely hair, silver in the pale moonlight, from my position just inside the door of the crypt; I wondered if it was a special sin to think carnal thoughts about an orphaned child in the cemetery where her father was buried. Deciding that it _was_ did not help me to keep such thoughts from my mind.

I was just tracing the outline of her breasts through her clothing with my eyes when the clock began to strike the hour. Mademoiselle Daaé raised her head and lifted her arms upward in awe. My eyes strayed downward to the curve of her hips where she knelt in the snow. An eerie sound filled the air and I felt my soul jump inside my body. For an instant, I was transported to a world in which the supernatural were possible, a world in which a transcendent being knew the carnal nature of my thoughts and I was about to be made to stand judgment for my crimes. An instant later I realized the sound was only Erik's violin. He played "The Resurrection of Lazarus," a piece I would never have recognized had he not practiced it in my presence in the little flat on Rue de Rivoli during a brief period when he entertained the idea that he might play in the orchestra, an idea he quickly abandoned in frustration at the ill manner in which the conductor handled all his favorite pieces. Christine Daaé trembled, and it was not merely the chill night air, I am sure, for the sound of Erik's music was undoubtedly the most beautiful sound she had yet heard, save perhaps his voice.

The music stopped and Christine Daaé, tears coursing down her lovely face, turned to go. I was afforded an equally lovely view of the rear of her as she made her way out of the cemetery, and I thanked whatever heavenly being might exist for Paris fashion, which, despite the many layers she wore for warmth in the chill night air, hugged her bottom tightly and allowed me to thoroughly enjoy its shape.

So intent I was upon watching Mademoiselle Daaé that I did not notice that young Monsieur de Chagny was with us as well. Erik, from his vantage point by the ossuary must have seen him long before I did. By the time I realized he was there, he was moving toward the ossuary as though he had heard or seen Erik. I wanted to cry out to distract him, but I feared what he might do if he discovered me there. I waited, sick with fear of what he might do when he discovered Erik.

A skull rolled to his feet and he stepped over it carefully. A moment later another struck his foot and he inadvertently kicked it away in mid-step. Then another and another rolled towards him. I panicked: had Erik climbed in the pile of human bones and lost his footing? But a moment later I realized Erik was intentionally rolling skulls at the boy, though whether to distract him or frighten him away or merely buy some time was entirely unknown to me. I saw Erik's form appear, a dark shadow across the night sky a shade lighter. With a single swift kick he sent the entire wall of neatly stacked skulls rolling at the Vicomte, then, quick and low, he ran to the church. The Vicomte was directly behind him though, having apparently seen him; he seized him by the cloak. I ground my teeth in anticipation of the fight that would ensure.

Erik turned back to detach his cloak from the boy's hand. I heard a shriek like one imagines might issue from the grave, and I squinted in the moonlight to see whether the boy had harmed Erik. Suddenly Erik was upon me, pushing past me, cradling his face in hands as he struggled to squeeze between the door of the crypt and me.

I leapt aside and whirled to face him.

"What has he done to you?" I cried, but Erik removed his hands from his face to put a single finger to his lips. He told me in a strained whisper to hush.

I dropped my voice low immediately. "What has he done to you?" I whispered, grabbing Erik's head between my hands and forcibly turning his face to meet mine.

In the flickering light of the torch he'd left in our crypt, I saw he wore no nose and no wig. His cloak loosely covered his head and obscured what thin hair he had. The torchlight reflected in his glassy eyes eerily. He looked a mere skeleton wearing a hooded cloak. He could not suppress a grin, as I easily recognized the face of the grim reaper. Erik clapped both hands over his mouth to stifle the laughter he could no longer restrain through force of will alone.

"Let us get out of here," he gasped to me in a moment's reprieve; I nodded vehemently and scrambled to gather our things. Our rapid exodus from the cemetery took us past the church.

"Careful!" Erik hissed, pointing, and I saw on the steps the body of Raoul de Chagny.

"My God, Erik!" I cried out. "Have you _killed_ him?"

It drove him to laughter once again. "No, no!" he gasped. "He's merely fainted," he cried. "Fainted," he repeated, "like a girl!"

He grabbed my cloak and dragged me from the crypt, laughing uproariously as we went.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** Reviews, _please_? (This was a special bonus post, you know... on a Thursday night a couple of minutes before midnight even though I SAID I would only post on Sundays and Wednesdays... If I can have a little extra encouragement, I might be able to get you another of these little chap-y thing-s before I shut the computer down Friday afternoon and don't reboot 'til Sunday...


	19. César

**Author's Note:** Ah, at last, now we get to the _good_ part. Dear old Gaston Leroux did his utmost to uncover the truth: interviewing the managers, reading their memoirs, examining what was un-earthed when they buried the phonograph records, talking with Little Meg and the Persian.... but it seems he didn't ask Christine or Raoul. Or... Pierre, Jacques and Michel. This is the Sunday edition

**Disclaimer:** I have not yet been sued by the ghost of Gaston Leroux... So what do I need a disclaimer for?

**Warning:** Humorous content follows. Please exercise caution.

* * *

We returned to the Opera on the first train, before Christine Daaé. It would be too suspicious, Erik said, for him to encounter her again in the same disguise—and carrying back the violin that he was supposed to have given as a gift. I was a bit disappointed, I admit. We had come to Perros and instead of spending time on the seashore, I had seen predominantly the cemetery and the inside of a crypt. I made a mental note to convince Erik to return to Perros sometime when the loss of Buquet did not loom so recently, when our minds were not so absorbed with the dead, and when it was a great degree warmer.

In the meantime, we returned to the Opera.

We found it in chaos. In the mere few days we were gone, the new management had fired Madam Giry, and relegated Daaé back to the chorus due to demands by Carlotta. They had vowed not to pay the ghost, had offered box five to their predecessors and upon their offer being declined, had rented it as they would any other seat in the house. Erik's friends—the ones who had assisted in the building of the lake house and benefited from the twenty-thousand francs—responded by stealing César, the most magnificent of the horses in the Opera stables.

Erik and I chuckled slightly at the thought. What would a ghost do with a horse, we wondered. All the same, the idea of a horse stolen right from under the managers' noses _was_ very amusing. We were on our way to the lake house then with Pierre and Jacques accompanying us when Erik at last thought to ask _where was the horse now?_

"You imbecile," Erik burst out when he realized the horse was not just _at_ the house on the lake but _in_ the house on the lake. "You'll clean that up for certain or I'll clean the floors with your carcass."

"Idle threats, idle threats," Pierre responded. Truth be told, no one who knew Erik feared him in the least. But those who did not… now that was a different story entirely. Lachenal, the stable master, believed absolutely in the ghost and was horrified that he and his horses were now targets. Erik smirked at the thought.

"And Carlotta," Jacques added. "She believes in the ghost as well. But she's not nearly as upset with the ghost as she is with… well… the real you, I'm afraid," he told Erik with an apologetic look.

A crease cut Erik's forehead as he frowned deeply, his brows all but concealing his deep-set eyes. "What reason has Carlotta to be upset with me?"

He made a face at me. "I took good care of Carlotta before we left," he said.

"I know," I responded. Then quickly amended: "I mean—I bet."

"Carlotta is onto you," Pierre filled in.

Erik's eyes widened and he turned to the young man at his side, tripping over his own feet as he failed to watch where he was going, and blundered into me.

"Erik!" I cried bitterly, for he had stepped rather directly on my toes and pushed me into the wall. He shuffled away, mumbling apologies and turned back to the other. "What does she know?"

"She suspects there is something between you and la Daaé."

Erik and I exchanged knowing looks and he snickered. "What gave her that idea?" he asked Pierre.

"I suppose the way Daaé has been acting of late. The fact that she disappeared the same time you did, and right after stealing the triumph from Carlotta at the retirement gala. And of course everyone knows that Daaé meets some man in secret in her dressing room. And she was ecstatically happy one afternoon about a week ago with no apparent reason. Somehow Carlotta connected that behavior with being involved with you." Pierre smirked. "I have _no idea _why."

"That's preposterous," Erik responded at once. "As to Daaé, I don't believe she's ever even seen me. We certainly haven't been in the same room together any time. Carlotta is merely being ridiculous. I can't comment on where Daaé has been since she disappeared, but I know exactly where _I _have been, and she certainly hasn't been _there._"

"Where _have_ you been, Erik?"

"That night I went back to our flat on Rue de Rivoli. My roommate can verify that." He pointed at me.

"Absolutely," I confirmed. "He returned home most directly, I believe."

"I've spent the majority of the rest of my time in the cemetery," he supplied. Then, when the other dared to look skeptical, Erik's face turned angry. "I said I've been in the cemetery, Pierre," he said contemptuously. "Joseph Buquet was a dear friend. His death affected me. I've been in the cemetery. Do you think I was dancing with little Daaé on Joseph's grave?" No, I thought... playing the violin on someone else's. But I said nothing. "I've scarcely _slept_ since I saw his body carried out that night."

I felt my brows come together and my forehead furrow as I contemplated: he hadn't actually _lied_ to the man....

Pierre looked uncomfortable. "Sorry. I suppose we're all affected by it. Carlotta too, I'm sure. I suppose she merely overreacted."

"I'll go talk to her," Erik muttered, turning back as we reached the lake. Pierre, Jacques, and I took the boat across without him. It was just as well. He would not have been pleased when he saw the condition of the house.

Pierre cleaned it up without complaint, as it was predominantly his idea to put the horse there in the first place. Jacques helped him put the place to rights while I placed the animal outside. It wasn't as if it was going to swim itself across the lake of its own volition anyway, I suspected, and I wondered how they persuaded it across it in the first place.

When I returned to help inside the house, Pierre and Jacques filled the silence with the story of their minor pranks on the managers in Erik's absence. Jacques had placed a skull from the prop room in box five where it could be seen from below, then removed after it had been seen. Pierre had donned a heavy black cloak and whooshed about box five, then stood standing completely concealed in the black fabric until the managers looked up. He then removed it, folded it carefully, tossed it into a box, and left the area before the managers could get halfway to the first tier. I smiled at their antics. They were small compared with Erik's efforts, but from the reaction, Richard and Moncharmin were becoming quite displeased.

When the boys finished I helped myself to some wine from our cellar and waited... until Erik returned, livid, and with Carlotta's handprint emblazoned on his face. That's all I learned from him about his encounter with her, for he was too angry to discuss her. Oh, I might have pried into his business a bit, but he didn't give me a chance.

The look on his face changed from anger to disgust in an instant. "What is that horrid smell?" he uttered. Then, before I could answer, he went off in search of Pierre. It was true. Though to all appearances it was entirely clean, the house on the lake retained a horse-y stable-like smell that lingered endlessly.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** As usual, comments are not only welcomed, but sought. Thanks in advance.


	20. Fair Warning

**Author's Note:** Hey everyone. I missed you all, so I'm posting again, a bit early. I know I will regret this later on, when I'm not so far ahead and have you make you wait longer between posts, but the truth is I apparently have no self restraint and I get such a charge out of reading your comments that I just can't keep away. Yeah, I have five million other things to do that are actually going to cost me money if I don't do them, and yet here I sit! Isn't that terrible? So please do make it worthwhile with a nice little review, okay? Especially those of you I haven't heard from yet. I know there are some of you out there because reviews seem to total only about 10-15% of hits, and it's doubtful that folks are reading it 10 times each, isn't it? So drop me a line and say "Hi!" okay? I love to put a penname with a hit number when I can.

**Warning:** Mildly funny content follows. If you're a big reader of Leroux, the next 2-3 chapters get really ridiculously amusing, though. Look out.

**Disclaimer:** I'm still waiting to be sued by the ghost of Gaston Leroux.

* * *

They're to be in the box tomorrow night," Erik complained bitterly of the managers. "How can I accomplish anything with those two ninnies in the box? This is getting to be too much like work."

"Quit the Opera, then," I told him through my newspaper. "A ghost can always find another place to haunt."

"But—" He stopped and offered no explanation. I glanced over my paper. Erik looked torn. It would be difficult to replace what we had at the Opera, I admitted to myself. It was not just a job, not just the added income of the ghost, not just the friends he had who were in on the ghost bit. It was the house on the lake, the private place to retire, full access to a private box at the premier location for high class entertainment, the horses, the kitchen, free gas lighting to the house, the fact that we could give up the flat at any moment and feel no hardship. It was giving up a lot. And yet, he could not keep up life at this pace for long. When _did_ the man sleep, after all? By this time, we were over thirty. I cannot speak for Erik, but I was certainly feeling a decline in my ability to stay awake all hours, and I had far less to do than he.

"No," he grumbled, lifting and rustling papers about on the desk as though looking for something. "Where the hell is the ghost's ink?"

I folded my paper closed and pointed. "Right there to your right. Just behind your—damn!—" I winced as Erik nudged the inkwell spilling the substance into his lap and across the floor of the flat as well. "Elbow," I finished feebly.

"Damn is right." He leapt up, hands a red-covered mess, trousers dark with the thick liquid. "Do you know how costly red ink is?" He was gone and I heard the sounds of washing mixed with under-breath obscenities muttered as he scrubbed his hands. I smiled to myself and shook open my paper once again. I followed Erik's progress through the flat with my ears. Bathroom door, hall door, bedroom door, wardrobe door, more cussing, likely about having ruined a perfectly good pair of trousers this time. A loud, "Mon Dieu!" followed by harsh laughter and stomping back toward the bathroom. I chuckled. More stomping, now in the other direction. I searched for the article I had been reading, but could not remember the substance of it. I shook my head. Erik bustled past me out the door. An instant later he returned for his forgotten hat. His hands were still darkly stained. Our eyes met and I tapped my nose with a forefinger. He shot me a puzzled look, imitated my action and stomped back to his bed stand for his most frequently-worn nose. When he went out the door at last, I laid the paper aside, suppressed a grin, and followed him.

* * *

An hour later Darius and Erik and I sat around the table in our kitchen with thick stationary paper, a new well of red ink and a box of matches.

"Tell me again why we have to write with these?" Darius complained, dipping a matchstick into the inkwell before drawing a thick childish downstroke on his stationary.

"Because the ghost has always written in this manner," Erik muttered, obviously annoyed. He still wasn't over the ruination of his finely tailored trousers, and Darius's complaining put him on edge.

"Yes, but why does the ghost write like this? Is it just to make him seem scarier?"

Erik snorted. "Red was to make them think of blood. As to the matchsticks, it was so the Debienne and Poligny would not recognize my handwriting. Now we do it simply because if the ghost's writing suddenly became elegant everyone would suspect something."

Darius nodded. "As long as you have a reason, Erik," he grumbled.

"Besides," Erik added, "We couldn't all write the same if we wrote neatly." It was true. Erik's handwriting was grand with great loops and flourishes. I could never copy _that_.

"Really," I said, "you've got the shortest of the letters anyway. I'll finish yours for you if it's too much trouble." Honestly, my brother is often a bit of a spoilsport.

"No, no. I'll finish it."

Erik's letter was long and laborious, addressed to the directors and kindly asked—_beseeched_, even—that they not rent out his box. He went on to comment that he had been terribly upset to arrive at his box and find it rented but avoided making any threats. Instead he signed it as he always had: "Your obedient servant."

"I don't know why you close that way," I observed.

"Sarcasm," Erik supplied.

I finished my note to Madam Giry and read Darius's note to Carlotta, which Erik had dictated: _If you sing tonight, be warned of a great disaster that will befall you as you begin to sing—a calamity worse than death. _"You're sure you want this delivered to Carlotta?"

"Certainly."

"You're that angry with her?"

"For now."

"Do you think she'll make the connection?"

"What connection?"

"You know. She slaps Erik, the ghost gets angry with her."

"Certainly not. More likely she'll be terrified and come to me to comfort her." He raised his stained hand a hand to his bruised cheek and looked indignant. "She'll have to apologize then."

"Ah. And why exactly did she slap you, Erik?"

"She accused me of meeting with Christine Daaé in her dressing room."

"Indeed."

"She's jealous," he added. "Perhaps I have not attended to her enough recently. We were away several days."

I nodded, fearing that was not all there was to Carlotta's anger. "Will you ever marry, Erik?"

He looked at me as though I has suggested he might cut off his right arm. "What is the matter with you, Daroga?"

"I—I'm not certain." I rubbed my head, which was just then beginning to ache slightly. "It just occurred to me to ask."

His eyes were wide. "Well, _don't_," he said disturbedly. "Why ever should I do that?"

I shrugged. "Forget I mentioned it."

"I will," he told me. "I am going to do exactly that."

* * *

"Watch," Erik told me, pointing upward in the Opera amphitheatre the following morning.

I watched.

He coughed loudly into his cupped hands, and the sound echoed around us. Another sound, like the tinkling of bells, erupted above us as the chandelier began to shudder. Then, with a reeling of the chains that held it in place, the thing started towards us. I made a move to run but Erik held me fast, laughing as the terrible thing plummeted towards us. It was like a nightmare. I screamed, shut my eyes, and waited for death. The chandelier jingled to a stop at a safe distance above. Erik whistled and the monstrosity ascended again, far more slowly than it had fallen.

"You're insane," I muttered.

He laughed. "Oh, but this wasn't even my idea. You've got Michel to thank for this. I only told him to come up with something horrific—and behold! _The falling chandelier of death!_

"Well, I suppose you'll have Michel to blame when someone dies," I groused.

"No one is going to die," Erik assured me. "Except perhaps Carlotta, and that will have less to do with the chandelier and more to do with her wounded pride."

"All the same, Erik, don't you think this is going a bit too far?"

"All right." His tone was one of a child whose favorite plaything has been taken from him. "This is the last one. No more stolen horses, no more trick chandeliers. I'll tell the boys the ghost can't be so dangerous. There are other ways to obtain twenty-thousand francs."

"For what do we need twenty-thousand francs now, Erik? Joseph is dead. You are doing fine and I—if money is an issue I'll _find_ work, one way or another. You needn't feel responsible for Darius or me any longer if we're too much trouble."

"Too much trouble?" He was surprised, confused, then mortified. "Have I given you _that _idea? Heavens no!" He looked horrified and I was sorry I'd said it, remembering a conversation I had once heard from beneath a bed. "Do you really believe that?" he asked me, shaking me slightly by the shoulder.

"No, I don't," I said at once. "It was a terrible thing to say. I'm sorry."

"Thing nothing of it," he said. He pulled a few francs from a pocket and stuffed them into mine. "Go do something nice for yourself," he said meaningfully. When I hesitated, he held up a hand and shook his head vehemently. "I'd go cavorting about with you if I could, but I can't. Something must be done about the house on the lake."

My expression must have revealed my puzzlement.

"The horse odor," Erik returned testily. "It lingers unbearably. I've a bucket of ammonia and I'll take care of it myself as no one else seems to have the capability."

I suppose a true friend would have helped, but the flesh is weak. I found my way to Sorelli once again before turning myself loose to shop on the boulevard.

* * *

**Oh please, oh please leave a review, okay?**


	21. The Falling Chandelier of Death

**Author's Note:** It is June and a great many readers are on vacation, I'm sure, but I figured I might as well go ahead and post the next little bit here during the day on Friday. There may be another Sunday post or there may not, but here's a little something to get your weekend started, if you're not one of those folks on vacation.

**Disclaimer:** It is very difficult to sue anyone from the grave, and Leroux The Phantom of the Opera has been in the public domain quite a while. Therefore, my grand plan to claim it as my own, wait for Leroux to sue me and confront him about his word choice has failed miserably. Does anyone else have any ideas?

**Warning:** While not AS funny as some of the preceding chapters, depending on your sense of humor and good you are at predicting what happens next, you may find yourself amused. Therefore, take all necessary precautions.

* * *

Erik's first letter to the managers, the polite one he composed so meticulously the same night Darius and I helped him by writing other letters, was not taken seriously. He sent a second, in which he cautioned the managers to make peace. His demands were, dare I say, modest. Only the return of "his" box, Christine Daaé's singing of Marguerite that evening, the reinstatement of Madame Giry as the keeper of box five, and a confirmation of their willingness to pay his salary—only willingness, mind you; he did not even demand the money! Sadly, he was ignored yet again.

He was particularly disturbed by the dismissal of Madame Giry.

"Can you imagine," he began, "They fired that poor widow over nothing! Over having gotten a footstool all those times for the ladies and returning the fan that my Marie-Élise dropped that night that I... er... _distracted_ her.

"They didn't fire her over the fan and the footstool, Erik. They think she knows the truth."

He became still more indignant. "That's ridiculous! How could she possibly know? If she knew the truth, she would have told, that's for certain. It's her belief that keeps us going. That, and English toffees."

I frowned at him. "I know that. And you know that. But—"

"Yes, yes, I understand it," he complained. "It simply isn't right. That poor woman has all those children to support and no help."

"Poor woman," I agreed. "How long has it been since old Jules Giry died? She must be dreadfully lonely." I felt a bit guilty, to be honest, for I had had a brief relationship with her eldest daughter and perhaps she had expected that to lead somewhere permanent.

An uncomfortable silence followed my remark, spurring me to glance at Erik questioningly.

"Never mind," I said at once when I saw the look upon his face.

"Well, she _was_...." Erik left the thought hanging, incomplete.

The thought of the way in which I had ended things with Little Meg would not leave my mind. But her mother...? "I don't want to know, Erik," I insisted. "Don't tell me."

Meanwhile, Erik's threatening letter was ignored, the managers decided to spend the performance in box five, Carlotta was informed that her position as Marguerite was in no danger whatsoever, Christine was relegated to the chorus with the possibility of occasional small parts, Madame Giry was not reinstated, and the twenty-thousand francs were not paid.

Erik sent Carlotta a second letter advising her to tell the management she had a dreadful cold and simply could not sing, but neither that nor the hearse he sent circling the block around her hotel to appear to her as a bad omen if she happened to look out the window persuaded her. Of course he could not use the same method he used previously to prevent her from singing that night, and I rather suspect that part of the reason she was angry with Erik was that it was plainly his fault that Christine Daaé had been given the opportunity to triumph in the first place.

I found Erik sulking silently on the couch in the flat on Rue de Rivoli, his elbows on his knees and his fingertips making a tent in front of his vacant nose as he plotted some terrible revenge.

I told him I thought he was going to too much trouble. He asked me how anything could be considered too much trouble for two hundred forty thousand francs a year. It is difficult to argue with that logic.

He sulked a long time, but eventually went out without telling me anything of his plan.

When next I saw him he was escorting a heavyset and somewhat common looking woman to a carriage. I stared after him in consternation. The woman was not attractive, not shapely, obviously not wealthy. Of course, I have mentioned before that Erik had an affinity for _all _women. I have recognized that he showed as much interest in women beneath our social class as he did those above it. I have perhaps failed to mention that he commented once that he loved the variety of them, that he loved to explore the differences among them, and that every single one of them was beautiful in her own unique way. Whatever the case, I was still a bit surprised for the woman was not one of those poor but beautiful types about which men so often fantasize. No, she was large and plain and unsophisticated. I wondered what was the plump woman's secret beauty, how Erik had uncovered it, and whether he would ever reveal a bit of it to me.

That night, the managers did indeed sit in Erik's box. Darius and I did not attend, obviously, having no place to sit, the box being occupied by Richard and Moncharmin. That night, so I'm told, La Carlotta sang Marguerite. Christine Daaé was present on stage as Siebel, the part of a male youth, the rival for Marguerite's affection, and a very small part at that.

That night, I was told, the huge chandelier in the center of the amphitheatre somehow fell. As it plummeted toward the floor, the Opera was plunged in darkness. Chaos ensued. _Faust_ was cut short. One—Firmin Richard's concierge—was reported dead, crushed by the weight of the chandelier. I could not ignore the fact that moments before the chandelier fell, a man's voice had been heard calling Carlotta atrocious names and laughing that tonight she was singing to bring down the chandelier. I remembered Erik's anger with Carlotta and his threats to both her and the management, but most of all I remembered Erik's cough, the rattling sound of a descending chandelier and my own words: "You'll have Michel to blame when someone dies." No Rasheed, I told myself. You have _yourself_ to blame. You knew what he was going to do, and you could have stopped him. You and you alone could have stopped him.

I remained awake at the flat that night, waiting for Erik to arrive. Alternately I worried for him and hated him. In the space of one evening, he had transformed himself from my light-hearted and generous friend to a ruthless murderer. I wasn't sure what I would do to him when he arrived. A variety of ideas tromped through my mind. I would call him what he was—a murderer—and insist he turn himself in. It made no matter that he was my friend, that I depended upon him, that he was closer to me than my own brother. A moment later I vowed to hide him, to lie for him to the ends of the earth. Immediately thereafter I knew that our friendship was finished. I would leave the flat taking Darius with me. We could stay with our parents for a time, then I would make a concerted effort to find myself gainful employment. The reality was, I had become so accustomed to living off Erik that hadn't even honestly tried in such a long time. If Erik was a rakehell, then I was certainly the sluggard, for do not the two nearly always go together? Perhaps there _was_ work for me—and for my brother as well! We had become lazy living here with Erik. We had allowed him to make us dependent upon him, and for that our punishment was our loyalty to him. He had made us mere slaves. I hated him.

I wept. I could not hate him. He was my childhood friend and had done so much for me. I would risk anything for him.

And yet, I could not. Murder! How _dare _he expect it of me?

But perhaps it really were an accident. _No one is going to die_, he has assured me. So certain he had been! And yet, someone _had_. How horrified he must be! What guilt he must suffer! I felt my heart ache for my dear friend as I remembered his emotion the night of the death of Joseph Buquet. Poor Erik! I thought.

I got up from the couch and paced. I looked out the window. Somewhere, out there in the city, Erik undid himself with grief and guilt, and here sat I in my comfortable flat at his expense. I got my hat and coat. A moment later I threw them onto the floor and collapsed onto the couch yet again. What good would it do to go out and have Erik come home to find the flat vacant, his dearest friend having deserted him?

I paced. I wrung my hands, and I wept yet again. Then I grew angry once more. I seized a bottle and threw it full force against the wall. I screamed. I tore my hair. And I cried once more.

Erik did not arrive. I remembered that not all were accounted for after the tragedy, and terror crept into my heart as I considered the possibility that Erik, too, had been crushed beneath the weight of the chandelier. Erik, Erik, my heart cried. How have I judged you so harshly?

But, no, he is not dead. Erik cannot be dead, I told myself. He is merely helping the wounded. After all, was it not entirely like Erik to always help those in need? Surely Erik was at the Opera, still doing his duty and going beyond.

And yet it was his own fault, the stupid fool, for ever encouraging Michel to _do something horrifying_.

I cursed my friend yet again, then threw myself upon the couch in fresh tears. I must have cried myself to sleep, for I remember nothing for an extended period of time.

When I came to my self once again, I knew that I must go and find him, alive or dead. It is what a true friend would do.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** Any thoughts on this chapter? I was afraid perhaps not. Do you know what I REALLY want to hear right now, though? What do you think is going to happen next? After all, keep in mind this is a comedy. It's not so funny when folks keep dying, so... what gives?


	22. Firmin Richard's Valet

**Author's Note:** Well, it seems that either everyone is on vacation or perhaps readership has fallen off. (Not those of you who reviewed. You all are the best! I just mean there are fewer and fewer hits each chapter. But...) since those of you who ARE still with me seem to be enjoying, here's the next bit without waiting for the others to catch up... because they could be out of town for an indefinite amount of time. Who knows? After all, it's summer, right? Oh yeah... also, this one is TWICE as long as the others... Hope you're pleased.

**Disclaimer:** Why do I need a disclaimer? In my mind I own everything....

**Warnings:** Okay... this one is funny in my opinion. I daresay that might mean it's NOT funny as whenever I posted stuff I thought wasn't particularly funny, you all seemed to think it was. On the other hand, maybe it means you'll find this downright hysterical. I can't judge for myself, so just don't eat or drink anything, mm'kay?

* * *

I found him all right, sitting in the passageway by a fountain, wearing a black mask that covered his entire face and sprinkling water on the forehead of Christine Daaé. Hours of worry had done nothing positive for my patience, and I was more cross with him then I have ever been.

He, for his part, seemed rather delighted to see me. "Daroga!" he called out. Then he dropped his voice low. "Quickly. She mustn't see you if she wakes. Yes, she fainted outright when she saw me." He chuckled. "Well, when she saw this," he amended, gesturing upward at the black silk. "She hasn't yet seen _me._ Imagine if she had seen me _this_ way!" He jerked the mask up and opened his eyes and mouth wide. I shuddered. "Forgive me," he added at my horror-struck expression. I am in a peculiar mood tonight." He pulled the mask back over his face. "I shant show her _that_," he said. "I must come up with a special disguise just for her, however. It certainly won't do to reveal that the Angel of Music is none other than Erik, a lowly sceneshifter! But no matter. The silk will do for now. I want her to think I'm mysterious. What do you think, Daroga," he said, drawing himself up to his full height and putting his hands on his hips in a dignified fashion. "Do _you_ think I'm mysterious?"

"I think you're a murderer, Erik!" I burst out tactlessly.

"Murderer?" He repeated, incredulous.

"Have you not _heard_?" I was furious. Erik was cavorting about the passageways with the Daaé girl not helping the wounded? He hadn't even _heard_ that a woman had died? "A woman is dead, Erik! Dead! By a stupid trick _you_ encouraged Michel to invent. _The two of you_ are responsible for the death of the woman crushed by the chandelier!"

He burst out laughing.

I stared at him, disbelieving for an instant.

Then I balled up my fist and punched him square in the jaw.

He crumpled away from me, his left hand clutching his masked face while his right reached out, palm out, to fend me off.

"You monster." I cried. "I hate you!"

"Wait!" he said, then inhaled sharply with pain. "Listen," he ground out through clenched teeth. I heard another sharp intake of breath as he released his aching jaw to grab both my wrists lest I strike him again. "She is fine," he spat through the pain. "I escorted her home myself. Daroga… _It's a lie_."

I tore myself from him in shock. I didn't want him to touch me again. I had hated him a moment earlier, and now I hated myself for that.

"A lie," he said, holding out his hands upturned between us, and it was then that _I noticed the smell_. "We have told so many together!" he continued. "Why do you choose _now_ to believe _this _one?"

I fell to my knees then and hid my face so he would not see my tears, but he pried my fingers from my face with strong and strange smelling hands. I choked on the scent. He knelt at my side and gripped me by the shoulders. "You think I am capable of such a thing? My friend? Do you believe…?" All this was uttered in a tight, voice spoken through clenched teeth and jaw pain, as were all the words he spoke from that point forward for a long time.

I dared to look up at him then, in the darkness, but I saw nothing, for he was completely clad in black, even his face, and he faded into the dark of the tunnel. Meanwhile, the stench was overwhelming. What _was _that horrid _smell_?

"You don't believe me!" His pained voice now also sounded wounded and broken, but I knew better than to believe my ears where Erik was concerned. He could fake wounded as easily as I could, and he did broken far better than I. Truth be told, by that point I didn't know at all _what _to believe. I drew breath to tell him so, but then I had to turn away. I doubled over, coughing on the strange odor.

I could feel him standing behind me, first waiting patiently, then fidgeting nervously and at last drawing closer in concern. Something in me sought to reassure him, even as I still doubted him, but I could do nothing, betrayed by my lungs, which heaved repeatedly and seemingly futilely. It was an eternity before my airway returned to normal and still longer before I was no longer light-headed. Erik's presence hovered behind me, obviously worried. When at last I coughed no longer he placed a tentative hand on my back. "Are you well?" he fairly whispered. I nodded, mistrustful of my own breath. "And do you believe me?"

I turned to look up at him, crouched over me like a concerned parent. He had removed his mask again; his pale skin reflected the dim light. "I don't know," I said, shaking my head sadly. All my anger and some of my despair had faded during my coughing fit. I got shakily to my feet. The terrible odor persisted, almost distracting me from the death of the woman beneath the chandelier. But only _almost_. "They say she's dead, Erik. Why should I believe you?"

He exhaled carefully. "You stood beneath it yourself. You _saw_ for yourself. _You_ were unhurt. It cannot fall completely; the chain is not long enough. It is why we turned out the gaslights. A falling chandelier, darkness, a loud noise, the human mind's tendency to imagine events to complete the incomplete.... I was nearby to smear her in tomato paste. When the lights came up, I told them I was a doctor; I declared her dead myself and carried her off with Pierre as my assistant." He paused. "Damn," he declared rubbing his bruised jaw. "You could have asked _first._"

I nodded, numb in my confusion.

"She's fine," he tried urgently to reassure me. Then I almost laughed at the change in tone of his voice. "More than fine, actually. She and I had quite a jaunt on the way back to her place. Of course, she'll have to avoid being seen for a bit as at the moment everyone accepts that she's deceased. Her husband will be pleased when he arrives home to find that the good doctor made a mistake and all she needed was a good rest and some... er... attention.

"Her husband!" I burst out.

"Yes, he was in on it. He and his brother. They—" here he broke off and laughed at the expression on my face. "Not on my jaunt with her, Daroga, you dog! And not on the falling chandelier, either, of course—that's a secret!—but the rest. The rest! I convinced her Firmin Richard was trying to kill her and offered to help her fake her own death so she could escape unharmed. Yes, she believed me, for I was quite convincing, but her husband and brother did not and sat with her to assess any imagined threats. Firmin gave them all three excellent seats. Oh, the strings I had to pull to get one beside them! But he told her, 'I want you to have a good seat and enjoy the opera before you spend time showing others to their seats.' Yes! He was going to replace poor old Widow Giry with her, I daresay! I told her 'Ah, that's what he wants you to think, but the truth is something terrible and tragic will happen that night, and you'll be lucky if you leave the Opera in one piece.' As I say, she believed me readily. Why shouldn't she? A woman will believe anything uttered from the lips of her lover. But that rat husband of hers and her thug brother said it was a load of nonsense. Of course, a falling chandelier of death plummeting straight for her _right _after Richard insisted she accept floor-level seats on _that very evening_ was enough to persuade _them_. As for me Benoît got me the seat on the other side of her brother so I could get to her quickly before anyone discovered the ruse—or noticed the tomato smell." He paused and appeared thoughtful. "She didn't want to work for Richard any longer anyway. I found her something else. She'll be far happier."

I sighed heavily and looked up at him, to his peculiar but kind features. It was true; he was only Erik, my friend, as he had always been. What had become of _me_? How had I allowed myself to think such things? I held out my upturned hands to him in dismay, apology, repentance. "I'm sorry," I managed at last.

"No," he whispered as he embraced me tightly. And there was that smell again! That pungent, acrid odor, familiar and yet nebulous, a smell like being punched in the nose, like sweat or urine, and yet not like those at all. "_I_ am sorry!" Erik's lips said near my ear. "I _should_ have told you. I should have _told_ you! Forgive me!"

Bleach? Silver polish? Jewelry cleaner? ..._Ammonia!_ Yes! _The horse odor lingers unbearably... a bucket of ammonia... take care of it myself...._ I twisted out of his embrace and grabbed him by the wrist to raise his hand to my face, but I was forced to release him abruptly and turn away coughing yet again before I could even reach my nose.

Erik looked between his hands and me repeatedly in confusion.

"Good God," I managed when I recovered. "Does the house smell as strongly as you?"

He shrugged. "Is it still so strong?" he asked me. "I thought I'd washed it off. I must have gotten used to it. I scarcely notice it now." His expression was bemused. "The house may indeed. It smells of _horse_ no longer, anyway." With that he laughed. "You forgive me, though?" he asked, "loathsome-smelling as I am?"

I nodded dumbly. "I'm sorry," I mumbled gesturing first at his face and then at my own fist. "I haven't....?" I couldn't finish.

"What, broken my jaw?" He worked it a few times, pressing against the joint with his fingertips. "I certainly hope not." His grin turned to a wince of pain. "It will make pleasuring Christine somewhat more difficult...." He turned his eyes to the still-unconscious singer where she lay on the moist ground.

I had all but forgotten her existence.

He gestured at her. "I can't—I can't just _leave_ her there in the passage," he said. "I'm taking her to the house on the lake. The stunt with the chandelier frightened her terribly."

I nodded.

"Come with me," he urged suddenly. "Don't let her see you when she wakes, but come with me."

I should let Darius know all was well, I thought. "I'll meet you there," I returned.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** This chapter was especially special to me, so it'd make me feel extra good if you'd be so kind as to drop me a line in the form of a review. Thanks so much in advance!

**PS:** for all the Leroux fans out there who don't yet know about the Erik Plush Project, please visit my profile for details. I expect to have a picture of an almost final draft of Erik Plush within the next few days, so if this is the first you've heard of it, you've got excellent timing.


	23. The first abduction

**Author's Note:** Wow. When it rains, it pours, yes? I know I have mentioned previously that a friend of mine who is living with me has been diagnosed with a terminal illness called LAM. I'm not sure if I mentioned that my brother had a stroke not too long ago, but as of Monday my dad was in the hospital. Though he's out now, we're not entirely sure what happened. Today my friend with LAM had a brain scan to check for tumors. When I called my brother to check on my dad, I learned that my childhood friend has just been diagnosed with MS. Okay... WHAT GIVES? I mean, I know bad stuff happens, but does it all have to happen at ONCE and to everyone I know? Sheesh! And as if that weren't all bad enough, my so-called "summer job" hasn't even started yet. Hello! Summer's nearly HALF OVER! Can anyone tell I'm frustrated? So... if this is less funny than usual, blame that. On the other hand, if it is funny, figure I needed a good laugh. Whatever the case, it's Wednesday, so on my Sunday/Wednesday rotation, it's time for a post. I continually worry that I won't stay far enough ahead of you, but I guess I have to stop obsessing about that, right? So here's part 23:

**Disclaimer:** POTO owns me.... As to the ghost of Gaston Leroux, one of my friends has a Ouija board, so we'll see what happens with me owning it.

**Warning:** All standard humor warnings apply.

* * *

I was gone longer than I anticipated. I hurried to the house on the lake the fastest way I knew—through the secret entrance on the third floor near where Erik and I had re-hanged poor Joseph. The area was known for a lot of strange happenings because it was easy to lead someone there and then disappear without a trace. It's why Erik chose this place to hang Joseph when he decided to ensure it was blamed on the Opera ghost. To those of us who were involved, though, it was just an excellent shortcut.

I dropped through the ceiling into the small octagonal room that allowed us entry to a number of different areas from a central location. I listened carefully at each of the eight walls, lest I be heard and ruin Erik's ruse. When I was certain there was no one around on any side, I leaned against the wall panel of my choice heavily with my shoulder and pushed until it turned on its pivot. I found myself in the parlor, which was empty but for _a ridiculous amount of flowers in baskets_. That was certainly strange, for Erik has never used traditional means like flowers to persuade a woman.

I crept toward what I call Erik's room—for he was the only one with the skill to play the organ—and listened. If anyone was inside, he or she was completely silent. I moved to the doorway and looked in. Erik's gaudy brocaded curtain obscured the coffin he had adopted when the company was finished with it after some morbid production or another. No one sat at the organ. I pressed against the wall and tiptoed down the hall to the kitchen to peer around a corner. Also empty, as was the dining room and the drawing room. Indeed, all the obvious rooms were empty in this wing, so I proceeded back down the hall and crept into the other wing. The door to the Louis-Philippe room was closed, which was unusual. Erik must be _using_ that room, if the door were closed. I pressed my ear against the wall next to the door. No sound. I smirked to myself. Erik was apparently _not_ using the room at present, then.

I moved away wondering where Erik and Christine had gone if not to the house on the lake. He had not been in the flat on Rue de Rivoli when I stopped there. It was unlikely she would invite him into her home, for hadn't he said she lived with an elderly and very religious woman? I shook my head in confusion and wandered back to the parlor. They couldn't still be in the passageways, could they? Dumbstruck, I started for the main door, as I could not leave the way I had come in without a ladder. Most inconvenient. Perhaps I could persuade Erik to add one, perhaps of the rope variety, so that one could leave more easily in situations like this. Meanwhile, I used the "main entrance" which was a large open foyer just the other side of the parlor.

I met Erik at the door, his arms piled with boxes. His eyes widened at the presence of a body in front of him, then he recognized me, put a finger to his lips, glided past me to set his packages on one of the wing-backed chairs and returned to lead me past the kitchen to the other wing of the house.

"She's asleep," he said finally, in a normal tone when we were comfortably seated in the second drawing room. Mind you, it was a normal _tone_, but he was speaking in a pained voice, and moving his jaw so little that had he not learned ventriloquism previously, it would have likely been impossible to understand a word.

I nodded. "Then you've already seduced her?"

He tilted his head, looked indignant and continued with moving his mouth. "Nonsense," he said. "We had such fun with our last little game. What shall we bet this time? What was it you said? I didn't 'wait' for her? Suppose we play a waiting game?"

I grinned and excused myself for a bottle of wine. When I returned I asked, "What's in it for me?" as I poured.

He shrugged. "Your terms."

If you have never conversed with a ventriloquist, you must have no idea how unsettling it is to look at a man, have a voice come from him, and yet he never appear to talk at all. It is surely why they use those dummies—not distract their audience but to offer them the comfort that someone's mouth moves. I took a long draught from my glass and looked at Erik through narrowed eyes over it. "Well," I began.

That's as far as I got.

We were interrupted by sounds like a harpy screeching from the other end of the house. There was pounding, there was screaming, and there was, above all else, harsh crying. Erik and I looked at one another. "Damn," he said setting his glass down without so much as a sip. "She's awake."

"Good Lord, Erik!" I managed between sips and we both bolted to our feet. Erik tucked his false nose into his right pocket and produced from his left the black silk mask he'd worn in the passageway. I hastily set my glass on an end table and hurried down the hall after Erik, who was tying his mask as we went.

Within the Louis-Philippe room, Christine Daaé raged. She beat her fists against the wall and shrieked like a Vouivre. I wouldn't have been surprised in the least if she breathed fire as well. "Feisty," I commented.

Erik shrugged.

"I want to see this," I said suddenly.

"See what?"

"How you manage this. I regarded the door as if I could see Christine through it. "Even you can't charm _that_ too quickly."

Erik's mask obscured his expression, but his voice sounded surprised. "You think not?"

"She's angry, Erik. You'll get nothing from her today."

"You think not?" he repeated. Then he clucked his tongue. "You are trying to fool me, Daroga," he said. "I could rise to either challenge, but I cannot accomplish both when they are mutually exclusive."

I'm sure my confusion showed plainly on my face.

"You dare me to 'wait' for her, and yet you challenge me to take her this evening. Which is it? One cannot do both."

I barely had time to consider this.

"Or perhaps one _can_," he said thoughtfully.

I grinned. I can never manage to hide a smile from Erik.

"I think we have our bet," he sang in that disturbing ventriloquaic falsetto. "All that remains to be determined are your terms. What do you want? Double or nothing?"

Twenty-thousand francs! My head spun. But on the other hand, _two years_ of Erik's shoes? The man is my friend and I love him as dearly as a brother, but _Erik's shoes_? If one thought the odor of Erik's hands were cause for complaint, one has clearly never encountered Erik's _feet_. Couple that with the fact that I didn't even understand what I was supposedly challenging him to and the result was a very bad deal. "You're on," came from my lips before I thought things through.

Erik shrugged his shoulders at me, pointed down the hall in silent indication that I needed to leave, and picked up the boxes he'd brought from above. I returned his shrug and started from the room. Then I halted suddenly.

"I have to ask," I said.

He stared back at me through the slits in the silk.

"What the hell's with all the flowers?"

He shrugged again. "Does it reduce the ammonia odor?"

"Not really."

"Oh well."

I giggled as found my way back to my glass of wine.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** Well folks? A little something-something in the review box'd be nice, yeah? Thanks.


	24. for love

**Author's Note:** I am going out of town July 10-17 and will be in Canada and Alaska, so I don't know if I'll be updating or not. It depends first on how busy I am on the trip and secondly on whether I have cell service to log in or not. I'm going to try to do a Wednesday post, but we'll be frantically packing, so if it doesn't happen, that's why. Sunday I may or may not post, depending on service. Same thing goes for the following Wednesday. So... WORST case scenario, your next post will be July 19.

**Disclaimers:** We don't need to stinkin' disclaimers!

**Humor Warning:** Uhhh... not as much as usual, but as your sense of humor may differ from mine, please take all standard precautions.

* * *

Before long Erik reappeared still wearing his black silk covering and announced calmly, "She does not seem so terribly pleased with me."

"Indeed?" I was able to play calm as well now that the screaming had stopped. "How did you pacify her?"

He shrugged. "I chastised her for sleeping late and offered her lunch." He lifted a finger. "Lunch," he repeated, "which I must prepare, no? Damn."

I got to my feet. "What a mess you've gotten us into now," I grumbled, leading the way to the kitchen. After all, I couldn't allow Erik to cook for the girl, could I? I am no chef myself, but Erik can scarcely boil water. Fortunately, that's all he needed to do to cook prawns. I did what I could with some chicken wings. Erik had given the girl a mere half an hour to ready herself, without seeming to understand that that was not nearly enough time to prepare a proper lunch. It had frequently occurred to me that we needed someone to prepare meals, but I had always believed that it would not be possible to hire someone willing to keep such a secret. All the same if Erik could convince a concierge to fake her own death, perhaps I was underestimating him yet again. Images of Erik "persuading" a maid came to my mind unbidden and I shook my head to dispel them. "What happened last night after I left?" I asked to distract myself.

Erik looked mildly disinterested. "I found a use for the horse, anyway," he admitted. "It was far easier than carrying the girl, who was not lucid even when awake and far heavier than she looks. I brought her here. But of course, I could not remain silent all that time, especially with her so terrified as she was. When I spoke to her to tell her she was in no danger, she recognized my voice at once. She was very angry to learn that the Angel of Music is but a man. She attempted to tear off the mask."

I grinned. "Well, _that's_ different," I teased. "I imagine usually it's your pants they try to remove."

He stifled something like a giggle. "Whatever the case, I prevented her from doing so."

"That, too, is different," I continued. "I imagine usually you encourage them."

"This time, I did not." He lifted the mask and made a most terrible face at me.

"Lucky her," I shot back, then clapped my hands over my mouth in astonishment. When had I suddenly become so bold?

Erik's reply was nothing more than a noseless snort. "I gave her my name," he said as we worked in the kitchen.

"Your real name?" I asked. His face fell suddenly. "That seems a bit foolish," I said, "what with Carlotta already suspecting something and the management knowing you by your real name, yes?"

He looked stricken for a moment, and nodded. "A very foolish error on my part. I simply didn't think of it. She seemed so innocent... and so frightened." He paused a moment and shook his head, then continued. "Of course I apologized for lying to her. I needed to give a _reason_ for that, of course, and I suspected telling her that I needed to win a bet with you would not have been accepted gracefully."

"I suspect you're correct in that," I returned, rather amused at my visions of how she might have reacted had he done exactly that and further tickled by his use of understatement.

"I told her I did it because I was so in love with her."

My amusement vanished in an instant. I stared at him. "_Are _you?" I managed after a few moments.

There was a long silence in which I was horrified beyond belief. Erik would marry, and I would be alone. It was worse than losing him to Buquet, for Buquet was really just another of us. But a woman... a woman would not understand at all! A husband must behave appropriately, after all, or at least appear to behave appropriately. I did not plan to marry. I have told you before that even if I could find a woman I wished to marry, I am not so entirely confident that she would willingly agreed. After all, I have no means to support a woman. Even if I could find a woman silly enough to agree, what father would approve? A vision of the remainder of my life stretched before me, a life of poverty and boredom with only my sullen and unimaginative brother for company.

My unhappy reverie was interrupted by Erik's raucous laughter. "Why do you look so worried, Daroga?" He continued to chuckle at me for many moments and at last he answered me, "Dear God, Daroga! She's beautiful! How could a man not love her?"

I eyed him carefully. "But that's _all_?"

He rolled his eyes and declined to answer. "I _sang_ to her," he continued. "I played the harp." The pilfered harp. Leroux doesn't mention it, but it was another casualty of the Opera ghost. Imagine everyone's surprise—especially the harpist's!—when the immense thing simply disappeared quite suddenly during a break. One moment it was there and the next, nothing.

"You _played_ the _harp_? Why, I thought you had finished playing an angel, Erik!"

His mask fluttered as he snorted at me again, then he checked his watch. "She should be out soon."

"Indeed," I said, glancing at my own. The meal was nowhere near prepared. "I'll finish this," I told him. "You... go... do whatever it is that... men who... abduct women do."

"Really, Daroga," Erik chastised, "I'd hardly call it a proper abduction. After all, I haven't yet even attempted to seduce her."

I rolled my eyes as Erik made his way back to the Louis-Philippe room.

What would Erik do, I wondered. And what exactly was it I had dared him to do?

* * *

**Shameless Begging:**Please leave a review. I know this one isn't quite as funny, so if anyone can think of anything that would have spiced it up a bit, I'd be happy to go back and edit it as long as you make your suggestion while the file is still there. THANKS!


	25. A Tour of the House

**Author's Note:** Sadly, I can't promise exactly when I'll post again because this is my last post before the Alaska trip. My cellular modem will work free of charge in Juneau, but not in Skagway and certainly not in Victoria, British Columbia, Canada. I'm not sure if I'll have a chapter ready by Juneau. I THINK we'll be in Juneau on Sunday... so, if I have a chapter ready, and if the cell service really does work and really is without charge and I really do have a chapter ready, then I'll post. But the trip is pretty packed with things to do, so there's no guarantee. I'd also like to promise to post pictures of Alaska to my DA, but that will have to wait until I return because pictures eat up data transfer even faster than stories. Oh well.

**Disclaimer:** It rather seems this part has become unnecessary.

**Humor Warning:** Still about as funny as usual, I hope. All warnings in effect.

* * *

I have spoken previously of the obvious rooms in the house on the lake, but I have not yet mentioned those that are not so obvious. We realized early on that if were ever to be caught in such a place it would be disastrous. Those who worked for the Opera might be fired; those of us who didn't, arrested. We worked at all costs to avoid that. One way in which we avoided being caught was to create secret hidden rooms into which we could retire should the house proper ever be discovered. Of course, those hidden rooms were a last resort. It was far preferred to ensure that the house was not discovered.

To that end, Henri installed an electric bell that rang whenever someone crossed the lake. Rémy told stories of a siren to those who were not in on the secret, and Erik devised a way to sing from beneath the water by means of a reed to give credence to Rémy's story.

I heard him practicing one night before he showed me how he'd done it, and I searched the water for him, trying to determine where he was, assuming it was a mere ventriloquist's trick. But he was right beneath me and apparently in the mood for a prank. He reached up and embraced me quite suddenly and I toppled headfirst very naturally from the small boat, which capsized above us. Naturally, I gasped in surprise and inhaled quite a large amount of water, which I coughed and spat back up in a most ungentlemanly fashion on the far shore of the lake when Erik "rescued" me and positioned me on my hands and knees to pound sharply upon my back—and which I _continued_ to cough up for days afterward, always at the most inopportune times.

When he wasn't drowning me with it, Erik's reed trick was a delight, for it was possible to remain submersed for hours on end, breathing through the reed, whose end was above the water level. Even those of us who did not sing so well found some use for them or another. It is a well-known fact that there were several pools on the roof, which, in the summer, were sometimes used to teach the boys of the corps de ballet to swim. Oh what delightful pranks can be played on the unsuspecting when the surface of the pool appears unbroken and yet there is something below which reaches out with human-like arms to lightly caress a swimmer suddenly!

On the hottest days of summer I found it an absolute delight to submerse myself in the cool refreshing water and simply remain there indefinitely. More than once I brought an extra reed and a lady friend. We slipped beneath the surface of the pool and remained there doing wondrous things until our skin pruned.

As far as I can tell, the reed trick never actually apprehended anyone en route to the house on the lake—except me that time. But I digress.

The house on the lake had no mirrors, for obvious reasons. By this time all the involved stagehands knew Erik's mirror trick, and it would be only a matter of time before the technique leaked. (As a matter of fact, I heard some twenty years later that a man in America patented "two way glass" as though he himself had invented it. Honestly, those people have far more nerve than culture! But I digress, yet again.) Erik outlawed mirrors in the house on the lake early on; he specifically wished to avoid being spied upon through his own invention.

When I realized the Christine Daaé challenge commenced immediately, I took my bottle of wine with me and made my way to one of the hidden rooms to listen silently.

One would imagine, from the way Erik behaved next, that I had challenged him to toy with the girl's mind in every way possible for it certainly seems he did his best to drive to girl to madness.

He provided her a half a glass of Tokay then told her a ridiculous yarn about having visited the Koningsburg cellars himself. I imagine she should have been quite impressed, had she believed him, but a moment later he was pointing out that they were frequented by Falstaff, and I concluded that she had never heard of Koningsburg at all. Poor Erik, I thought. Sometimes it is a detriment having too much knowledge; no one comprehends enough to laugh at your jokes and at times even your boasting goes completely without understanding.

Based on the lengthy silence, I would say the girl ate quite a bit of the chicken wing and prawns meal I'd thrown together. She complimented Erik's cooking. I did not get too flattered; I assume she was simply polite.

Erik declined to eat which left me baffled. When I'd departed after observing Michel's chandelier trick, Erik had not yet had lunch. He indicated he was going below to clean the house, which probably took him all afternoon and well into the evening considering he must have scrubbed every surface with ammonia. That evening he attended the opera to sit near Richard's valet and play doctor. He had somehow escorted the lady home and yet returned in time to know that Christine was terribly upset about the chandelier. There is no way I can be certain how long he had been in the passageway when I encountered him there with the unconscious singer, but I had the impression it was quite some time and he didn't seem to have packed a picnic meal. I could not imagine how he might have squeezed a meal into the rest of the day suggesting that he very likely had not eaten since breakfast the day before—and as Erik rarely eats breakfast, that meant supper the night before that.

My own stomach growled as I did the calculations. Surely it was madness to forgo so many meals! He must be famished! It occurred to me that perhaps he was concerned that she might see his face if he ventured to slip something beneath the mask, but that really didn't see reasonable as she was seated _across _from him. Whatever the case, he didn't drink anything either, I am certain, for when he set the table he had not even provided himself a glass. Peculiar, I decided.

Meanwhile, the girl had finished _her_ meal and Erik offered to show her around his home. I repressed a chuckle. What peculiar new personality had he invented this time, that lived underground and kept his face hidden from the world? "Do you think I'm mysterious?" he had asked me before I punched him in the jaw. But if he wished to play mysterious, why should he show her around the home? I sulked and wished I could see them rather than only hear them.

Erik was playing a role that was perhaps still more bizarre than the one in which we met in Persia. Now Erik had been living there beneath the opera, alone and in secret because he was a man without a country. I considered the possibilities. Foreign, exotic, a bit tragic... It might just work, I conceded, and wondered if I might try the foreign and exotic bit myself sometime. I did have a bit of an exotic look with my mother's swarthy complexion and my father jade-green eyes. As to those eyes, I could feel them narrow as I thought through my next exploit.

Meanwhile, Erik was telling Christine his name wasn't really Erik in an attempt, I'm sure, to rectify the mistake of telling her it was. Yet, he declined to offer her another name as well and allowed her to continue calling him Erik. I shook my head. His ruse was seriously off from his usual confidence. Could it be he was so enamored with the girl in reality that he did not think through things clearly?

The girl cried out and Erik mumbled, "Oh, I beg your pardon" or some such nonsense. Naturally, I wondered what impertinent thing he might have done, but as I could not see, I had to merely sit and wonder. I admit that when he told me all he had done was reach to take her hand, I did not believe him in the slightest. It was not until I later heard the same words from her lips that I conceded that he had not deceived me.

In the meantime, Erik had taken he girl to _his_ room, where no doubt he intended to impress her with his organ.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** I don't leave until Friday morning, so I'll be checking back to see how you like it! Please do comment!


	26. Unmasked

**Author's Note:** Well, as you can tell, I didn't get to post last week on Sunday or Wednesday. Sunday we were in Skagway, but we were SO busy there was no way I could post, and it probably would have cost a fortune anyway. I returnd to 100 some-odd emails, most of which were just junk mail. When it came down to it, ultimately, there was nothing important in my inbox, so apparently I'm not all that necessary in the grand scheme of the world or anything. I previously supposed that something really important was going to happen while I was away and I'd have to hurry up and deal with it when I returned. Instead, no one really noticed I was gone (except you guys... yes... I know. You're sweet!). I'm not sure if that makes me sad or relieved. I guess I'll go with relieved. Being important is probably a lot of work.

**Humor Warning:** This chapter isn't roaringly funny or anything (in fact, I fear the best of those is already past and it may be a while before we get to another) but we apparently had another food and drink mishap last chapter. Please continue to exercise caution should you choose to eat or drink.

**Daring and depraved lack of a disclaimer:** I own it! I own it! I own it ALL! ::maniacal laughter::

* * *

The girl took an immediate distaste to the fact that Erik kept a coffin in his room, and Erik took the opportunity to be completely and totally exotically morbid. "I sleep in that," he told her. I smacked myself in the forehead so hard that surely the girl heard the sound through the wall panel, if only she had been paying attention!

It wasn't entirely a lie, though. I never asked Erik where he sleeps when he does not come home. It isn't my business whether he holes himself up in a coffin at the Opera or remains carefully entwined in his lover's limbs until morning, but I do recall his sleeping in the coffin for a fortnight on a bet with Charles DeLattre. He was grouchy for at least another week afterward. Said the coffin hurt his back. "I'm going to make a mattress to fit it, though," he insisted rubbing his protruding spine with a cautious hand, "when I get the time. If it weren't so rough on the back it would be a magnificent bed. It's so peaceful in there—so _quiet_ with the lid closed." I made a mental note to peek into the coffin next chance I got and see if he had indeed made such a mattress, just to satisfy my insatiable curiosity. Meanwhile, I find myself struggling to remember the details as to how that ridiculous bet started, but as Erik will bet on nearly anything, there have been so many over the years that they all run together in my mind except where I was directly involved, as I was _this_ time.

Erik and I had done a bit of research on the Daaé girl and concluded she was more than a bit obsessed with death. Having lost her mother at a very young age and her father a bit more recently, she was inclined to excessive sadness and thoughts of the possibility of communicating with the dead. She had lived a childhood filled with magical tales which she had believed entirely and continued to believe, at least somewhat. She was absolutely convinced that she had seen numerous goblins on the moors in her youth. She was religious, but in an almost superstitious fashion that lent itself easily to Erik's Angel of Music ruse, and of course, to believing that the angel played her father's violin that night in the cemetery.

Even so, today Erik went overboard. He went on and on about eternity and dying and death, speaking of death even when she attempted to change the subject to music, stating he intended to die when he completed his masterpiece (which, anyone who knows Erik well knows is already complete and has been used successfully on numerous occasions to accomplish exactly what its title implies). He turned the subject so heavily upon eternity that I thought that it may have been too much, even though all our research indicated that the girl herself was rather enamored with the concept as well, having been orphaned by both parents and a benefactor and having apparently spoken of wishing to die herself so as to be with her departed loved ones.

When Erik pointed to the coffin and said in a tone as flat and lifeless as his face, "I sleep in that," I thought the poor wretch would wither and die if she didn't forget her chaste nonsense and throw herself at him instead. But she did neither. I suppose she was playing a role too. She played innocent just as surely as he played mysterious and tragic.

Before I knew it, they were back in the parlor and I was scrambling like mad through the wall to get to a place where I could hear the conversation. I don't even pretend to know what Erik's tactic was when he used a tone that sounded offended to the point of anger with her, but I do know a moment later they were singing some operatic nonsense in what might have been Italian but was most assuredly a language I did not recognize. Everything progressed musically enough until at once there was a terrifying shriek of two voices, perfectly paired in unison. My skin turned to gooseflesh and my heart pounded wildly at the sound. But it was so perfectly _timed_, my mind rationalized. It _must _have been scripted. (I was unfamiliar with the piece they were singing; how could I know otherwise?) But the uproar continued. Through the soprano's high screams I made out a couple of dark words from Erik. I turned cold once again. It seemed something had gone dreadfully wrong.

I left my hiding place and pushed the nearest hidden door open in haste. Erik's tall dark form towered over the girl who appeared to be sitting on the floor. Both had their hands over their faces. What nonsense was this? Ah, opera, I thought.

Then I noticed it. Between his skinny fingers, I noticed.... Erik was bare-faced. I glanced at the girl again and, now that I was looking for it, easily discerned a piece of black silk clutched in the fingers of one hand. My eyes were surely as wide open as my mouth now; I must have looked absolutely ridiculous standing there. I backed away lest I be seen.

Meanwhile, Erik fell to the floor and cried weakly. "Why did you want to see me?" he sniveled, "when my own father never saw me, and my mother so as to see me no longer, gave to me a mask as my first present?"

The girl sobbed harder. If Erik noticed her tears he gave no indication, writhing about on the floor.

I reminded myself why Erik used the line about his mother—it worked. Slowly, sympathy overtook terror as through her tears Christine Daaé watched Erik skulk away on his belly.

He crawled miserably away from her toward his room, and as he did so, he suddenly noticed my presence. He looked up, caught my eye, _and winked at me,_ mid-slither.

The girl by this time was so engrossed in her own excessive pity of the poor man that she did not notice me. I pulled the door almost closed and waited, watching through the crack. Erik pushed the door to his room closed with a foot as he slithered in.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** I believe it's been about 10 days since we've conversed. Surely it is not to much to ask that you drop a line?


	27. Erik's Mother

**Author's Note:** Hello, everyone. I am home today, because the new job I thought I was getting did not exactly work out as planned. I'll stay on as a volunteer, but that means I only need to go in when there's an actual client there. I'm keeping my school job for at least another year, which means, at the very least, a predictable schedule, so I suppose that's good. I'm still feeling a bit blah, but that might be a reaction to coming home from vacation (and realizing how much money I spent!) It's Tuesday, but it looks like the majority of you have caught up with what I posted Sunday, so I figure we might as well move on while I have the time, yes? This bit has been written for rather a long time since back when someone (Madame Faust, it was, I believe?) asked what Erik's mom would think of what he told the little girl in chapter 6).

**Humor Warning:** I don't find this chapter particularly funny, nor did I intend it to be particularly funny. However, it often seems that stuff that I don't intend to be that funny comes across entirely funny, so let's just say the genre is humor, so just be careful.

**Disclaimer:** I stubbornly refuse to put a disclaimer here as Monsieur Leroux has not been forthcoming at all!

* * *

Erik's mother, I suppose I really need to tell you, is not at all as Erik would have you believe. This is perhaps the worst of Erik's lies, still worse than the Angel of Music, for we are commanded, are we not, to honor our parents? Erik sees it as no dishonor, but the truth weighs on my mind like a two ton... erhm... heavy thing, and I simply must say....

It is not true that Erik's father never saw him, or that Erik's mother gave him a mask as his first present. As a matter of fact, I had never seen Erik in a full-face mask until the afternoon at the Opera when he snipped eyeholes in the piece of black silk cut from an old costume and put it over his face to make himself "invisible" in the dark. (It would have worked, too, if his yellow eyes hadn't been so damned reflective.)

I remember his father only slightly, for he died when we were young. His mother, however, I remember well. She was trim of frame and short of stature with non-descript brown hair. Her distinguishing feature was the color of her eyes—a shade between amber and gold that shone brighter in a dark room. Erik has his mother's eyes.

I remember the usual things a boy might remember about his friend's mother: she was kind and gentle when one of us skinned a knee; she baked (though not as often as my mother did, when she did, she always made sweeter things for Erik than my mother ever made for Darius and me); she played the piano in the evenings after supper sometimes, and when I stayed the night when we were very small boys, she sang us to sleep. I remember straining to stay away to hear the end of her lovely song, but it was impossible.

But what I remember best of all—oh terrible the way the memory works!—is the time that Erik's mother learned _what he had said about her_. It was shortly after the first time he had first tried that line. He was ambling about in the yard practicing ways to improve it, telling me tales and watching my facial expression for the instinctive reaction that took place. Mind you, we were no longer little boys but young men, and suddenly the attention of the girls—no! young ladies—was all important.

Erik's stories varied: His mother had sold him to gypsies when he was a toddler because she could not bear to look at him and the gypsies had made him a freak show act. Alternately, he had been _captured_ by gypsies during a trip to a circus and no one believed the poor woman her when she rushed through the carnival exhibits shrieking that _that _one—the little skeletal boy without a nose—was really her son. Or his father had sold him to pay off debts and never managed to redeem him before he died. His mother sold him as an infant while his father was away on business and told his father that he had died….

"You wouldn't remember that," I pointed out. "You would have been too young to remember it, so what will you say if someone asks how you knew?"

He agreed and scrapped that version. "I lived with her 'til I was ten," he tried again. "But she was cruel to me. She kept me locked up in the attic. Or sometimes in the basement. I was never given a birthday present in my life. And sometimes, she beat me. I ran away."

"Erik!" I warned, for I had seen his mother glance out the window to locate her son.

"She beat me and called me terrible names. And when I misbehaved my punishment was being forced to look in a mirror!"

The woman appeared at the door and I pointed past him toward the house. "Erik," I tried again, unsuccessfully. He was caught up in the drama of his tale.

"She hated me," he said. "Do you know what I did to 'misbehave'? I tried to hold her hand. I begged her to let me kiss her. I put my arms around her…" He paused in his tearful recitation to grin at me. "All the things I want to do to _them,_ you see?" he said. Oh yes. I saw. I saw easily that a sweet kind girl would fall prey to that. Poor fellow... I'll kiss him, she'd tell herself... But I _also _saw Erik's mother headed directly toward us at a pace that indicated I had only an instant more to shut his terrible mouth for him. I signaled frantically, but he shut his eyes tight.

"But she _wouldn't_," he cried. "She wouldn't even _look_ at me. She would turn her face away as she dragged me to the mirror and forced me—" he let his voice break "—to look!" He calmed himself slightly and opened his eyes to look at me. "And when I could bear no more, she would throw me my mask and remind me to keep it on always."

"Erik." Erik's mother's voice was quiet with soft horror. Erik's false tears dried instantly and his eyes went wide as he turned to face her.

"Maman!"

She didn't raise her voice. "Go inside Erik," she said.

"But Maman, we're _playing_," he responded grandly; he was clearly on stage.

"Not anymore, not today. Go inside." Her hands went to her hips. I let my eyes move slowly up her body to her face. Her eyes, the golden color of Erik's, shone in hurt and anger. "Go home, Rasheed," she said evenly. "Give my regards to your parents."

"Yes, Madame," I replied, getting shakily to my feet. Erik remained rooted to the ground, staring at the grass. "Until later, Erik," I said softly. I waited a moment, willing him to look at me. He did not. I glanced back at his mother, whose eyes remained fixed on me. I wondered then, for an instant, if part of Erik's story was true. When I left, would she beat him? It seemed so unlike what I knew of her. But I wondered. I would know for certain the next day unless he did not come out. I looked at him again. "Erik?"

"Go home, Rasheed," she said again, her voice slightly louder now.

"Yes, Madame," I said again. I bowed my head and headed toward the street, glancing just once over my shoulder at my friend, who remained as he was. Then I did what I believed any good friend would do—I went around their house and in through the front door. I hid myself beneath Erik's bed and waited to see what would happen.

They came in quietly, so quietly I did not hear the door. I saw Erik's feet as he entered. The neared me and turned away as he slumped onto his bed. I waited to hear his mother coming after him, voice and hands raised, but nothing happened. Maybe it _is_ true, I thought. Perhaps there would be no screaming. Maybe she had gone only to get the mirror.

I did not know what to expect when her feet appeared a moment later. Would Erik scream? Cry? I had seen him look in mirrors before without effect. Why should his mother's mirror be any different?

Her feet came to the edge of the bed and turned. The mattress above me creaked, and I suspected she sat beside her son. I tensed myself for blows, but none came. The anticipation was greater punishment than anything else I could imagine. I waited, nearly holding my breath.

"Erik." Her voice was soft as a whisper.

"I'm sorry, Mother." His was low and dejected.

"Come here," her voice said as she shifted above me. "Look at me. Look at me, Erik." I suspect he must have, for she sighed. "My boy," she said softly. "Let me look at you." A squeak above me told me she reached for him. I imagine she held him at arms length for a moment. Then she must have brushed his thin but unruly hair from his eyes for she said, "How can you see like this?" and he made the noncommittal sound that often accompanies a shrug.

"Do you hate me?"

In the silence that follows I suspect he shook his head.

"Do you know I love you?"

Silence again.

"Why do you say such things?"

Did he even shrug?

Her whisper became harsh. "Is that how you think I feel?"

His reply was scarcely audible. "No,"

"Then, why, Erik? Why would you say...?"

"I didn't mean _you_," he whispered. "I was _pretending_. It was an imagination. I was…" he paused. "You will think it is stupid, perhaps." There was a long pause. She said nothing. Then he continued, hesitantly, tentatively, in a tone I'd never heard, a small voice that begged to be acknowledged. I could envision him dipping his head low to look up at her through messy bangs. "I'd like to write operas someday."

She drew a sharp breath. "I don't think it is stupid, Erik," she said. "But you know there isn't money enough for music lessons anymore. I daresay the university isn't going to be an option either."

"I know," was his disheartened reply. "I suspected that."

"Is that why you're angry with me?"

He raised his voice a bit. "I told you I _wasn't angry_. I was _pretending to be someone else_."

I could not see her face from my place beneath the bed, but I am certain her lips stretched into a thin line as they often did when she contemplated whether to believe her son or not.

"You look like your father, you know."

Erik made a noise. "Father had a nose."

"So he did. But you are tall like he was. Your hair is the same color as his was. And here…" Did she touch him? "You have the same high cheekbones, the same strong forehead, the same brow." She sighed. "I see him when I look at you, Erik. More every day." She gave a forced laugh and the bed squeaked as she… put an arm around him? ...brushed back his hair with the tips of her fingers again? "I miss him, Erik. If ever I look away it is because I miss him more when I see him in you. Do you understand?"

Erik's response was a strange-sounding noseless sniffle.

The mattress above me shifted and the wooden slats of the bed creaked again. Erik's feet disappeared upward and his weight came down heavily over me.

"Baby boy," his mother's voice crooned, and I noted with rue that my own mother still thought of me this way, though we were most assuredly nearly men. "I would never, _never_ put a mask over this face." There was a pause in which Erik made no audible reply. "You believe me?" She kissed him then, one of those annoying, noisy, wet, motherly kisses that young men so hate. Then in a horrified tone she whispered, "Do you wish I _had_?"

"No." Then more emphatically: "_No!_ I don't wish you'd done _any_thing differently. I only wish…. I miss him too."

"I know, son, I know. I am so sorry."

The bed rocked as she did and I wished I had gone straight home. This was a private moment, and I did not belong where I was. There was no way to leave now, however, and she continued:

"I am so proud of you. Do you know that? And I love you so much. I don't tell you that enough, do I? What can I say, Erik? I have to work. Life... is busy. But I love you every moment of the day. And I'm sorry. Maybe I should have remarried. A boy needs a father, after all."

"No," Erik tried to interrupt.

"But I cannot think of anyone else—"

"No," Erik said again.

"No," she agreed. "It wouldn't be the same. My poor Erik." She was crying softly now.

"Don't cry, Maman," he said immediately, though it served only to make her cry harder. "Don't ever think I meant what I told Rasheed." He took a deep breath. "Mother," he said carefully, then when he had her full attention: "Do you wish I didn't look this way?"

In the silence that followed I knew that I would hate her if she told him yes and I would think her a liar if she told him no. There was no right answer to such a question, and yet she found one.

She kissed him again. "Only if you do," she whispered. Then she broke into fresh tears. "But wishing won't make it so. I simply don't want your life to be difficult, son," she sobbed.

He was strangely composed. "It won't be, Mother," he said. "My life will never be difficult. I promise you." Then more vehemently: "I will enjoy every single moment of my life, do you hear me? I _swear_."

I was trapped for many more moments before Erik's mother remembered the reason she had been looking for him out the window in the first place: the stew was ready for supper.

Mother and son left the room so close together the must have held one another tightly. I waited until I heard sounds in the kitchen then shimmied out Erik's window and bruised my arm badly falling to gracelessly to the ground.

* * *

**Begging:** Okay... that's that. Your thoughts? I'd love to hear them, most especially on this one, as it was... well... different.


	28. Trapdoor Lover

**Author's Note:** You guys were AMAZING last night. I mean, 40 of you read and 11 reviewed already, all at once, the same day I posted. I was like, so incredibly impressed with how quick you were (maybe you missed me while I was away or something?) that I'm giving you this lovely gift of an additional chapter today. (And a little secret... I have 29 and 30 ready, and I'm off work due to... well... not having everything work out as expected at that new job. But my kids are in the daycare program because I THOUGHT I'd be working at that job... long story short—I could post every day or more often this week if you wanted. All I need is a little encouragement, yeah?

Meantime, I want to apologize in advance for the Persian's attention deficit disorder. I know many of you are thinking of how we left Christine sitting on the floor of Erik's parlor, his silk mask still clutched in her trembling white fingers as Erik slithered off and kicked the door to his private chamber closed, but unfortunately, (oh terrible!) it might be part 30 before we find out what happens next. Dreadful, I know, but that's the way things sometimes go, is it not? Again, I am all apologies for our dreadful narrator's meandering style.

**Humor warning:** You know, I don't think we need this warning this time around. There are perhaps only a sentence or two that are even remotely amusing. This is one of those "bridge" type chapters that is there only to fill in a gap between where we are and where we are going. I might delete it later, but since it's summer and we have all kinds of time on our hands, if everyone manages to read it, I'll post a funnier one tomorrow or the next day, yeah?

**Disclaimer?** We don't need no stinking disclaimer!

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Ah yes, Erik's mother. She of the sweet pastries and melodious voice who kissed her son and fawned over him every chance she got. One would think she wanted him to stay her little boy forever—not like my mother at all. You are a _man_, Rasheed! It is time you begin to act like one! Careful now! Your brother looks to you! I can hear the rough edge of her tongue even now all these years later. But Erik's mother... That afternoon was the nearest I got to hearing her utter a cross word.

Of course, any reasonable person would expect that after such a conversation with his doting mother, Erik would feel enough guilt to stop using the my-mother-never-loved-me story. But no! Not our Erik. He began again in earnest the very next day with details to put to shame those of the day before. Strange Erik, who managed to get out of that conversation not how much his mother loved him but instead how he should be certain not to spend one instant of his life being unhappy. And so it was a few mere days later that he was back at the home of Sofia, the first young lady on which he had used the line—the same young lady in front of whom I had first witnessed his tears.

I had thought that it was the end of the matter when we turned the corner and I realized that Erik had played her for a fool. I believed he had merely punished her with guilt for her derision of him. I did not realize he had planted seeds he planted to reap at a later time. A week later he went back, but it was months before the fruits of his deceit were harvested.

I had forgotten the episode entirely and was suspecting nothing when a female voice called out "Monsieur!" from above us I glanced up in hopeful expectation to find out lady standing above us on a terrace looking down. Erik seemed not to notice her, but a moment later she called his name. He glanced up, acknowledged her briefly and averted his eyes. I tore my eyes away from her to examine him and scarcely recognized him. His stooped shoulders and hung head were so uncharacteristic that I though he had become suddenly ill. I was glancing about to determine our exact location then back at him to determine the nature of his disease when the lady's voice trilled from a street-level doorway and Erik turned mechanically and moved toward it.

I wanted to follow him, to join him as he stood before her basking in the splendor of her beauty and radiance, but I dared not approach her. I stood awkwardly in the street twisting my hands uncomfortably. Erik's bearing mirrored my own, though the previous episode with this particularly lady suddenly recalled itself to my mind, and I knew his discomfiture was feigned. I edged closer; I had to understand what he played at. This was beyond punishing her with guilt for her prior disgust with him; Erik clearly had a plan. It took only an instant to determine that she requested something of him, something which he politely declined. He humbly thanked her. Humbly? But Erik was anything but humble! A smile spread across my face though I knew not yet why.

A moment later he was at my side again urging me down the street with soft words but ambling slowly in an attitude of submission. His words were incongruous. "Oh, she wants me, Daroga," he said. His voice was a mixture of pride and passion. "She _desires_ me."

"You're ill," I told him. "She wants you, you'd be mad not to want her, and yet you're walking down the street with me. You're truly sick." I turned to him. I wasn't joking.

"Not ill," he said with great restraint. "I am testing a theory."

We walked a few more steps before I could not bear not knowing. "_What _theory?"

"That men spend too much time chasing women. Consider it. You've been forced to read the same literature I have. How relentlessly we pursue them, and how cunningly they stay away! The more a woman stays away, the more a man wants her. It takes a lifetime of such hunting, and one gets only one life. Shall we spend it all reaching for that goal? Or shall we try another tactic?"

"I'm with you so far," I said tentatively. Truth be told, shy as I was, I wasn't sure what I would do with the hind when I caught her, so the thrill of the chase suited me fine. But Erik's plan had merit, I thought, and I ought to remember it for when I was ready to stop waiting.

"You should have an easier time of it than I," he offered, "looking as you do. "I do believe the secret is pretending you are not interested." He shrugged and feigned even greater nonchalance.

I was angry with him. I really was. _I_ had fantasized about speaking to that same young lady. Sofia! Oh, bright, beautiful Sofia! I dreamed of her often, imagined the feel of her soft pale skin, told myself stories of Sofia as I drifted to sleep, and when I felt sad, cheered myself with envisioning her bright eyes. Sofia!

I had let my shyness and insecurity get the better of me. Sure that had looked enough like I was not interested, hadn't it? Meanwhile, Erik goes up to her looking rather like something that had recently dug its way back out of a grave, and wins her. And then has he the audacity to offer me advice! I was horribly jealous. An instant later, though, my anger subsided as I realized I could learn from him. And this, really, is where it all began. It wasn't long before Erik accepted the girl's offer to come inside while her family was away, so it wasn't long before he was telling me the thrills of the female body. It wasn't long at all before he was calling himself Don Juan without sarcasm and I was calling him the trickster.

Some months later, when he devised a very creative way of getting to the then current object of his affection by altering a panel in her wall, I nicknamed him "the trapdoor lover" in Persian. (Erik's exploits had driven me to learn the language in earnest in an effort to make myself seem more exotic. We had discovered our two-part seduction: first a woman must feel sorry for us; then she must feel that her interest in us is greater than ours in her. I could not pretend that I had been sold to a circus to make them feel sorry, but a painful homesickness for the land of my birth was sufficient for most, especially as it was a place considered exotic. Many a young French girl dressed in Persian skirts and veils and little else in vain attempts to assuage my longing.) When my mother overheard me calling Erik "trapdoor lover" she berated me soundly about my choice of words. I told her that Erik was an amateur magician who _loved_ trapdoors and such. I fooled myself that she believed me, too, but it's unlikely for "lover" means in Persian exactly what it means in French—and any other language too, I suppose—and when Erik went through trapdoors, "lover" is exactly what he was—to literally _dozens_ of young ladies who were otherwise known to be good and honest girls.

The Daaé girl was no different. Certainly, she reacted as they all do at first—she made that face that all young girls make when they look at a man who is not just unattractive but truly ugly. I admit that in that instant when they make that face, I am not sorry for them at all, and a feeling like righteous indignation creeps into my heart, and I know that what they are going to get is exactly what they deserve. Unlike Erik, however, I begin to feel sorry for them an instant later when he begins to work his magic.

* * *

Still with me so far?

**Shameless Begging:** It's 9:00 in the morning, two more chapters are ready to go and all I have to do today is clean my house, do a little bit of shopping and maybe make a few phone calls. I'm sure I could squeeze in posting another chapter if I thought you wanted me to....


	29. Don Juan

**Author's Note:** I can't decide whether I like this portion or not. It could be cut entirely and it wouldn't change the plot a bit, but I had already written it and didn't see the reason to delete it if there was a chance it might entertain you. Please be sure to let me know if you think there is anything I can do to improve this particular portion. And again, I apologize for the Rasheed's ADHD

**Humor Warning:** A few funny flashbacks. Take care.

**Disclaimer:** Hardly necessary, eh?

* * *

Ah, but I digress. Where were we? Ah, with Christine Daaé, yes. Beneath the Opera. Erik had just slithered from her—and I use that word, slither, quite literally. When I was alone and could be most assured that no one was watching, I tried to replicate his action with little success. I do mean that he went on his belly, thrashing his legs about to propel himself forward as does a snake. I found it difficult to imitate as no matter how I kicked, I seemed to go absolutely nowhere. All in all, I got horrendously filthy mopping the floor with myself and succeeded only in bruising my knees and causing undue pain to a few other parts. How Erik managed it while bawling his eyes out still escapes my comprehension. But suffice to say Erik writhed away, still sniveling in a most pathetic fashion as he went.

But I reserved my pity for the girl. Yes, I pitied the girl as I watched her kneeling there, white faced and wringing her hands. I pitied the girl because I knew what would happen next. And despite said pity, I was, as always, impressed by the cunning with which Erik placed his next card. He began to play _that _music—what he'd told Christine was his "masterpiece." _Don Juan Triumphant_.

"You ought not call it that," I've told him a hundred times. "It's too obvious. One of these days it will give you away. Everyone _knows_ the story after all."

Always he responds in the same way: "It hasn't failed me yet, daroga," and I concede, for I have never known it to.

We were yet boys when we first read Molière's _Don Juan_. I remember it as though it happened this morning.

"Did you read that?" Erik said, skin and bone finger pointing out a particular passage as he leaned toward me in earnest.

"I read it," I replied dully. I'd read the whole book, yes. Don Juan was consumed by fire at the end, sorely punished, and from this I was supposed to learn to avoid the sins of lechery and false witness.

"He's brilliant," Erik said at once. Then, "_I_ want to be Don Juan."

I looked at him skeptically. (Surely I don't need to mention the stars in his eyes.) "How do you intend to manage that?" I asked.

He looked defiant. "Do you think I can't do it?" he asked me.

I shrugged. "I didn't say that. I only asked."

He tucked a thin but unruly lock of dark hair behind his ear and looked studious. "I haven't yet determined that. I suppose I begin by finishing this highly instructional text."

"It is a fiction, Erik," I corrected.

"And of what relevance is that?" he snorted. "If it is possible, I shall do it. It does not matter whether it has actually been done before or not."

And so that is how he began—by finishing Molière. The next two full days he spent with his nose—er, pardon an unfit expression!—with his _eyes_ in that book. Poor fellow! He couldn't read a bit with his _nose_ in a book we all learned shortly after he went through the onset of the papier mâché phase. You may recall that by that time, the three of us occupied the flat, and it was the nose that at last gave Erik the confidence to show his face among the sceneshifters during regular hours. He was still thinking of university study at that time, and spent a good portion of his spare time reading.

I remember one evening his attempt to transition seamlessly from Opera to books. He glided through the door, dropped a light bag in the hall, slid into a chair and opened the book that rested on the side table in one fluid motion.

He moved the book away and squinted. He moved it closer and frowned. He adjusted the lamp that burned on the end table. He extended his arms until his elbows were straight and looked perplexed. He screwed his eyes almost shut and moved the book slowly closer, closer, closer, until the nose nearly touched the crease and his eyes crossed. Then he pushed the distracting protrusion up onto his forehead, sighed in relief at its absence, and went about his reading entirely oblivious to the fact that he looked rather like a cross between Cyrano and a unicorn, what with a nose sprouting ridiculously from his hairline! Of course, he could only do that with noses that tied around the back of his head, and vanity wouldn't allow him to wear those for longer than it took him to discover better methods of attaching them. If you must know, Erik now reads _only in private_.

Ah, but I digress yet again! Sincerest apologies! My mind tends to wander when it comes to Erik. As I say, he went about finishing the Molière book rapidly (envision him with the book upon his mother's kitchen table and his chin where the bottom margin meets the crease of the book, eyes gliding rapidly back and forth, back and forth above a papier mâché-less hole.)

A few days later he turned up at my door with a look upon his face so wretched I felt sure that someone had died. "It isn't right," he said at once. "It isn't at all what I expected, and it isn't right!" I opened my mouth and shut it again repeatedly as I considered the possibilities. His mother was ill? His uncle was entirely cutting off his mother and him financially? He'd been caught trying to sneak in to watch Opera rehearsals (again) and was _permanently _banned this time? I held out my hands to him in dismay.

He pushed past me into my home and headed for my sleeping chamber. I followed at a trot asking _what _wasn't right, which of course he patently ignored. He paused for only an instant to politely but impatiently greet my mother, then continued until we were in the privacy of the room Darius, who was somewhere else, and I shared. "He isn't at all what I thought it was! He's a scoundrel and a coward at that!" Erik burst out at once.

My next terrible thought was that it _had _to be Erik's uncle, for his father was too long dead to be a likely subject of conversation. I still didn't know what to say and could feel my mouth stretch into a thin unhappy line. Uncle was cutting them off, then? But I managed to lick my suddenly parched lips and whisper "Who?

"Don Juan!" Erik cried, as though it had been entirely obvious from the start. "Don _damnable_ Juan!"

I remember looking away for an instant as I struggled to determine what to say. "You expected him to be honorable?" I dared to ask.

For a moment Erik looked about to explode through his lips, but when he opened them only one word bolted forth: "Yes!"

I shook my head. Poor confused Erik.

"Why _shouldn't_ he be?"

"I thought that was rather the point, Erik," I started, but it was no use.

"What an absolute waste of talent! How stupid to make promises one doesn't intend to keep! It is absolutely... It is without..." He panted, lost for words. "Well, what good is it? All that does is make them all dreadfully angry and unhappy! He promised he would love them and make them happy. Of what use is happiness if it lasts only a moment?"

"I think that is the point. It's what one is supposed to learn from it."

Erik ignored my platitudes. "Do you know what he did in _Spain_?" he raged. I shrugged that he should continue. "He went into darkened rooms and pretended to be ladies' husbands!"

I was mystified. "And it worked?"

"_I_ would not go about pretending to be some lady's fiancée or husband. That is really beyond obtuse."

I waited in polite anticipation that he would explain exactly what he meant a moment later whether I asked or not.

"Don't you want to know why?"

"Sure, Erik. Of course I want to know why." I knew what _I_ thought but his version was sure to be far more interesting.

"Because _that_ man gets credit for it!" His rage left him and he looked thoughtful for a moment. "I suppose the man in question might not perform as well, and the woman would be forever disappointed. And how is she to explain her concern? 'Remember that one time... oh, you _don't_ dear? Oh, well, never mind then. Surely I imagined it...' Yes _that_ would work, I daresay!"

"Well, it's only a story," I said at last.

He sighed heavily. "Yes. Only a story. You're right. I shouldn't let it upset me. In real life, we will not behave so supremely stupidly.

Naturally Erik's views were a bit unorthodox but as I had no other views at all by which to measure them, I accepted his rather easily.

"Honestly," he reprised, "If one is going to pretend to be someone else, one should at least invent an identity so one can return to visit every now and again!"

Seeing that he was still too worked up over a mere story, I tried one last time: "But Erik, the point I believe, is that it is not acceptable to take advantage of the ladies in that way."

He looked suddenly serious. True, he had been serious all along, but serious only in the way a man of law undertakes to argue for his client—vehement, but without a real stake in the matter. Now his face changed, rearranging itself into the gravest of expressions and it became apparent he took _this_ matter _entirely _to heart. "Take _advantage_?" he whispered incredulously. "I would _never_!"

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Shameless Begging: Reviews, please. (Quick note: Chapter 30 will be ready Sunday or before. I'll post it as soon as it looks like you all are caught up.) I really need to know whether to leave this chapter in or not and what can be done to improve it.


	30. Triumphant!

**Author's Note:** Okay, y'all... I was trying really hard to wait until 10 of you managed to review, but you know, I have this impatience-complex and sometimes I literally just CAN'T wait, so I'm posting this now anyway for those of you who have already read part 29. For the record, I had WAY too much fun writing this chapter. It's short, but awfully fun, I think.

**Humor Warning:** I found this one funny enough to laugh while writing it. Can't be certain if your sense of humor matches mine, but just in case, be careful.

"**Other" Warning:** This chapter contains some sexual references. No actual sex, but some very "bad" thoughts in the narrator's head. If you wish to avoid all sexual content, you can simply skip this chapter. All that _really _happens here is *****SPOILER FOLLOWS***** Erik plays his _Don Juan Triumphant_, the Persian and Christine both listen and then Christine goes to Erik's door just like she did in the original Leroux.

**Disclaimer:** I own all the inappropriate stuff that Victorian-era Leroux would never want to claim as his own.

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By the time Erik started to play his Don Juan music, Daaé was back in the Louis-Philippe room. I couldn't see her, but I was sure that's where she was because it was from that direction that her cries came. Erik was surely in his own room, for that was the place from which the all-encompassing music emanated.

Erik started with an innocent-enough theme. He played soft romance, undying love, innocent affection. Then the music swelled, became adoring, obsessive, tripped dangerously close to passionate. I was torn between the thrill of hearing it again and the agony of being trapped in the wall where, if I allowed myself to fully enjoy all the strains of music to their fullest, I would find myself quite frustrated with no real means by which to alleviate said frustration without risk of blindness, hairy hands, or insanity. Lord knows, my short stature might have been related to failure to quell that same vice years earlier; I certainly needed to take precautions. I clapped my hands over my ears and hummed _La Marseillaise_ to drown out the ache.

Alas, my mediocre droning did little to withstand the power of Erik's organ and all the poignant chords permeated my ears as the music progressed from ardent to zealous, proceeding along the way through desire, hunger, temptation and yearning. When it reached downright fiery, I pushed my forefingers deep into my ears and switched from humming to nearly shouting the melody of the anthem loudly—la la, la la laaaaa, la la!—but to no avail. Erik's chords pried at my fingers and crept into my auditory orifices with a vigor and an enthusiasm I could not resist. Weakly, I surrendered, withdrawing my waxy fingers and leaning against the wall on quivering limbs to pant forth that carnal desire known to all mankind as "lust."

Erik's strong right hand melody proceeded directly through physical pleasure in all it's infinite glories to emerge on the other side, swirling upward, reaching, groping, grasping—to at last put forth a trembling finger and—don't look!— _touch_ the divine.

I groaned in agonized relief and marveled that somehow, though some amazing feat of self-restraint—no! nothing short of a miracle!—I had managed to avoid a moral perversion and a sticky mess. I took a step and remembered that my legs still shuddered beneath me, scarcely bearing my weight. I took another and realized that avoiding said mess also meant _failing_ to avoid a certain pressure that bordered on pain and hampered my walking. I limped piteously and aimlessly a few more steps. _Oh, Sorelli, are you here at the opera now?_ something cried within me. But I knew she would not be available, not yet, not at this hour, and even if she were, could I walk that many stairs in my present condition? I despaired.

I resigned myself to silent suffering, reminding myself of what within my mind I surely knew, knew, _knew_ (though it seemed so difficult to convince myself of it at that instant!) a man does not die of desire, regardless of what we are likely to claim to get what we need. Dimly, I was aware that a door opened and closed and footsteps echoed faintly somewhere in the house.

My conscious thoughts were something along the lines of, "Oh, well, I've been through this before often enough to know how to manage," and somewhere in the recesses of my subconscious was the knowledge that Erik's bathroom had hot (and cold!) running water, so I started automatically to head in that direction. Suddenly my spirit succumbed to temptation without my consent. Without even thinking of it, I withdrew my handkerchief and was on the verge of withdrawing something else in order to pursue some desperate liberation when I heard a voice cry through the wall behind me my friend's name.

Oh. _Her. _I am certain I moaned audibly in frustration.

"Erik!" she cried, (and I swear this is as near as I can come to a direct quote from the young lady) "Show me your face without fear. I swear to you that you are the unhappiest and the most sublime of men, and if Christine Daaé ever shudders again when she looks at you, it will be because she will be thinking of the splendor of your genius."

Actresses. Really. _So_ dramatic (by definition, I suppose). Could the girl have simply opened the door and said, "I'm sorry Erik! That was so inappropriate of me. Will you forgive me and let's just pretend it never happened, please?" Oh no. It was: "Show me your face without fear." Who _speaks_ this way, really? Then, "If ever Christine Daaé trembles..." Already he had _her _speaking in the third person as well! I scoffed aloud. "...it will be because I am thinking of the splendor of your genius." Oh _please_. She will tremble with unholy desire because something in her will associate him with _that music_ and what it did to her just as that Russian man's dog came to associate food with a bell. But "splendor of your genius," sounds more ladylike, yes? I'm sure the wall muffled my voice some, but more likely they were simply so engrossed each in their arrogant selves to notice my grunt of disgust.

Despite my annoyance, I decided that Christine Daaé was actually a very good actress (surely she was acting to have uttered such a formulaic line!) and, as she was also a talented soprano, she certainly deserved a lead role at the Opera, even if it came at the expense of poor dear Carlotta. I further decided that, acting or no, bet or no, I fully expected Erik to bed Christine Daaé immediately after the line about what a genius he was. I was, therefore, awed by his own self-restraint when instead he remained in character and expressively fell to his knees to clutch the fabric of her dress in a tight fist and tell her he loved her, loved her, loved her, loved her, over and over again. Damn actors. I literally _gagged_.

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**Shameless Begging:** Oh _please_ review!! (I seriously couldn't stand it if you didn't comment on this one!)


	31. Fortunate Little Swede

**Author's Note:** Okay, it's Wednesday and at least half of you are caught up from Sunday, so here's another post. Now we're finally getting somewhere, yes?

**Humor Warning:** Some funny stuff, so please be careful! (Eating, drinking and having sex during the chapter could be dangerous. Breathing is probably safe, though.)

**Disclaimer:** I own all the inappropriate stuff that Leroux would probably want but wouldn't admit to wanting. All the other stuff is his, even though he's dead and can't claim it.

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We met that evening in the second parlor. Erik wore his most standard nose for my sake, because it is what I am most used to. Every time we heard a noise—a drop of water or a rat scrabbling by above us, he grabbed it in a tight fist, ready to pull it off should Christine discover that the hallway went on past the area he had shown her. That Christine might encounter Erik sitting amiably with a friend was apparently not a problem, but that she might see him with a nose now that she had already seen him without one was somehow unthinkable. I did not pretend to understand this.

I poured our drinks and downed mine in a gulp. Erik eyed his suspiciously and swirled it in the glass while I poured my second, which I sipped slowly. There was no hurry, after all, no place to be, nothing to do. Erik and I regarded one another across the room. It occurred to me that we ought to be smoking cigars, so when Erik suddenly stood and excused himself I figured he'd thought the same thing. He instead he returned with a thin reed straw, which he slipped into his drink.

I raised my eyebrows questioningly.

He sipped his drink carefully, scarcely opening his mouth. After a long draught he closed his eyes to savor it and it occurred to me it was the first he'd eaten or drunk anything since I punched him, and considering my calculations possibly in as much as two days.

"Is it _that bad_?" I asked at length.

He shrugged.

"Is it _broken_?"

He shrugged again and put his first two fingers to his jaw bone. "I don't believe so," he said ventriloquially. "It's simply sore," he concluded with another shrug. I would have to remind myself to mash foods for him so he didn't starve himself. Lord knows he couldn't stand to lose any weight, lanky as he was. Meanwhile, he and his parlor still reeked of a strange combination of ammonia and dried flowers, and now Christine Daaé had seen him noseless. Erik wouldn't need to try particularly hard to win our bet; surely he wouldn't get anywhere with Christine Daaé for months—years, even—let alone two weeks.

Eternity stretched before me, filled with shoe polish and Erik's feet. There was only one way out that I saw, and I would have felt no qualms about using it if I weren't riddled with guilt about my ill-timed hasty punch.

I tried it anyway.

"Had to resort to your old standard line about mother again, eh?" I taunted.

Erik glowered. "It was necessary when the little wench whisked my mask off without warning as she did," he growled. He might have yelled it, had he been capable of opening his mouth without pain. "Honestly, Daroga!" he continued, "Can you believe the nerve of the girl?"

"Even so," I said. "You didn't have to revert to that tired old line about Mum."

Erik's glower darkened. "And what might _you_ have said instead?"

"Aaauugh!" I tried. "My face! My face!" I threw myself from the chair theatrically to claw at my visage. "You little wench! You cruel beast! You've _torn off my face_! Oh, the pain!"

Erik's laughter reached my ears, followed by pained words. "Oh, God, stop it at once Daroga!"

I glanced up from my performance. Erik clutched his jaw and struggled not to laugh.

I scrambled back to my chair. "Sorry," I said. I felt my cheeks burn and I knew I was deeply flushed despite my dark skin. Had I really just said that _aloud_ about _my best friend's face_?

Meanwhile, Erik sighed. "You win," he said. He stretched out his arms and bowed at the waist. "Failure," he said, indicating himself. "I daresay you'll be set for quite some time. I shan't make any more extravagant bets with you henceforth, though. I am not _made_ of money, after all."

"It isn't necessary," I began, but he silenced me with a hand and shrugged.

"Supposing I could persuade her tonight, I'm not sure I feel up to it. Certainly couldn't kiss her, in any case."

"I'm sorry," I stammered again. "You know, you really ought—" I rose and headed toward the kitchen "Have you tried... something cold, you know?" I managed to get to the kitchen and return with a cloth I'd soaked in frigid water, which Erik dutifully leaned upon. "You haven't lost, though," I said. "The bet was whether you'd _wait_. You have _waited_, haven't you?" I smiled at him. I poked him in the shoulder a bit until he gave me a half-smile back.

"I suppose I cheated a little," he said at last.

My mouth opened without my permission yet said nothing. When had he had the time? And with all that screaming and crying and de-masking and all, it certainly hadn't seemed the lady was willing!

"I confess," he said with a sly glint in his eye and a bowing of his head that was anything but humble.

"Ah," I said, not exactly surprised that he cheated but certainly bemused that he confessed. Erik would _never_ confess merely for confessions sake, I knew, and so I narrowed my eyes and tried to see through his bony brow into his calculating mind.

"Why do you look at me so, Daroga?" he asked.

I lifted my chin and turned away slightly so I could regard him from the corners of my eyes. "You're proud," I ejaculated, and he laughed. I observed him more carefully still. "You would not be proud that you had cheated," I analyzed, "unless the cheat was still more remarkable than the original challenge."

Erik nodded sagely. He placed his elbows on the table and laced his skeletal fingers together. A near-insignificant smirk played at his soft misshapen lips.

"Well, go on and tell me then," I cried at last. "It's not as though I could guess it!"

He seemed to shake without truly moving, as though his insides trembled. A strange sound began deep within his gut and slowly bubbled to the surface without breaking the barrier of his lips. Erik chuckled quietly for a moment then sighed and shook his head as though to chase the amusement away. He reached out a hand toward me and grasped the air before him delicately between the tips of his fingers and his thumb. "I touched her dress," he whispered as though in awe.

"That's all?" I am sure my irritation showed through magnificently. If I were an impartial observer, I would say that touching the girl's dress for an instant did not count as truly 'touching Christine Daaé.' If it allowed me to win, well fine, but it seemed wildly insignificant. "What of _that_?" I asked impatiently.

He smiled again, genuinely this time and closed his eyes as he always did to relive the rapture of a seduction. "She trembled, daroga," he said as though from very far away. He breathed a lecherous sigh. "She...." his voice was a mere murmur now, scarcely audible. "...oh, she longed for me at that moment," he sighed. "She _craved_ me...."

I left him in his fantasy for a moment longer before I broke his reverie. "That still doesn't tell me how you cheated. Do you mean to say you sneaked off to sate her hunger just then? It is not possible. I was there within the wall and heard nothing." He had dismissed her to her room a moment later saying that he was exhausted from their earlier encounter and surely she must be too and that was that. And here we were. Erik had not managed anything with Christine Daaé unless he was more a magician than I had previously supposed. "How could you possibly manage that, since even you cannot be in two places at once, eh, Erik?" I leaned closer and I daresay almost became menacing, but then I remembered how I had hurt him in the tunnel, and I back away. "Explain yourself!" I whined instead like an inpatient puppy.

"No." He shook his head sadly. "I did not. I did _not_," he emphasized. "But in that instant when I touched her dress, daroga...." He opened his eyes then to look up at me, his eyes so full of lust that they were rimmed with tears of frustration. "... I touched her dress while her dress.... her dress touched the layers beneath it...." He shuddered and grinned hideously at me. "... those layers touched _her_, you see. And with a gentle shifting of fabric...." he brought his hands together and twisted them, "... I brought her to imagine the feel of my _hand_ upon her leg, gliding _up_ her leg, daroga, to the glory of what lies above. And she _quivered with desire_."

It was true Mademoiselle Daaé had been audience to the same overwhelming concert I had heard from within the walls, so it was not _too_ difficult to imagine that she might be experiencing similar feelings.

Erik hung his head a moment leaving me to stand over him, shifting my weight from foot to foot, trying to determine what to say to him, what to _do_ with him just then. Then at last, he lifted his head and stared vacantly at a blank point on the wall.

"I could have relieved her just then, Daroga," he said in a voice filled with guilt, "but I enticingly rustled the fabric of her dress around and then dismissed her to her room _alone_!"

I laughed aloud then, and Erik glared at me.

"It is not amusing!" he cried out and his voice broke upon the third syllable. His expression was one of true guilt. "I sent her away without the slightest concern for her _need..._ because of a _nonsensical bet with you_!" He delivered these last four words with such passion that I imagine he would have roared them had his jaw not been so constricted. "A bet I had already rightfully lost," he moaned. There was a long pause before he continued matter-of-factly: "But it seemed ignoble to pursue her without at least letting you know first that I had decided to surrender." He sighed unhappily. Was it the money?

I deliberately used a gleeful tone to countermand his seeming sorrow. "Well, then the bet is over!" I made a grand sweeping gesture in the direction of her suite. "Go _get_ her!" When he made no move I added. "I wouldn't take your money, Erik. And even if I did, we share the flat anyway, and you're almost never there. I might as well just pay it then, yes?"

"But in the time since then, I have had time to consider it. And I have decided... two weeks... it is a long time, but not so long that I cannot manage it. Irrespective of the money it is something I should surely try. To prove it to myself."

"Why?" I said flatly. Honestly. What was the point?

"Consider" he said softly, "how much better tastes a meal when you are truly hungry?"

I did. We ate rather lavishly on a regular basis, but I was remembering our train ride to Perros, the long night in the cemetery, the meager lunch Erik brought under his coat the following after noon. As famished as I had been, mere _bread_ had seemed exquisite. I smiled, involuntarily.

"Imagine," Erik continued in an enchanting tone, "how much greater the pleasure if one waits in eager anticipates for that which he most desires." His eyes turned amorous once again and a blissful smile crossed his features. "Yes," he crooned. "It will rival all else." He nodded slowly, thoughtfully, then at once he seemed to come to a decision. "Yes," he said definitively. "It will be a great challenge, but it will be perhaps my greatest work." His voice returned to his seductive lilt. "Oh, fortunate little Swede!" he managed, his voice quavering slightly as he fought his instinctive drive. Then, "Damn!" He brought the heel of his hand down heavily on the table and shook his head hard. "I mustn't think on her any longer!" He leapt up and began to pace. Then all at once he turned to me once again. "Haven't you anything else to do?" he said irritably. "Leave me alone at once!" He turned and stalked down the hall abruptly and shut himself up in a room.

Erik's description of the girl's desire left me with cravings of my own, and I had not fully recovered from Erik's earlier performance. I shrugged and checked my watch, then hurried above; after all, _I_ had not committed to self-restraint for any length of time, and it was possible that Sorelli _just _might be available by now.

I found her, sure enough, in her dressing room fussing with a pair of stockings, which I immediately apprehended and cast to the floor in favor of pushing her to the wall for an aggressive kiss that she ardently returned. I loved her fiercely that night as I had never loved a woman before. I had waited perhaps four hours to assuage my hunger that night, and it left all the breath knocked out of my darling. Had I stopped to consider, I might have worried what would become of the Daaé girl when Erik's period of self-denial reached an end.

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**Quick A/N:** There is not an adverb for of "ventriloquist" (you know, a word meaning "in the way a ventriloquist speaks") so I figured I'd make one up. Do you like ventriloquaically, ventrilicly, or ventrilically best? I should also add to the list ventriloquistically, which was suggested by my dear friend L'Archange. Any other ideas? Or does anyone out there know a REAL WORD that MEANS that? My husband found "ventriloquial" but the dictionary says it's a noun. What gives? Wait! Here it is! Ventriloquially!! YES! It's a real word! (Yay, Joe!--that's my husband). Okay... so the search is off... but do please tell me what you thought of the chapter, then, instead.

**Shameless Begging:** Please, please, please review!! (C'mon... gimme just ONE more before I post the next chapter!!)


	32. Two Weeks

**Author's Note:** At last we get to a part through we can speedily progress. I'm so excited...! I've gotten SO much of the later parts of this story written and I just can't WAIT to share them!! But here goes the two week period Erik spent with Christine between the first abduction and the masked ball. Leroux doesn't give us much detail. Sorry... neither do I. Here goes:

**Humor:** As usual.

**Disclaimer:** Do we still need this?

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The two weeks that Erik spent beneath the Opera with Christine Daaé must surely have been at once the most boring and the most frustrating two weeks of his entire life. I visited often at first to bring him supplies, but soon after learned to stay away.

The first day after the mask incident I visited to guiltily provide Erik with porridge for breakfast, a hearty stew for lunch and soup for the evening meal. I noticed the place where I had struck him had purpled overnight and had left distinct imprints of my first three knuckles on his face. Poor Erik! But he seemed better otherwise, getting the spoon, albeit sloppily, between his lips anyway, and opening his mouth at least a little when he spoke.

I returned each day to ensure he ate, but I did not remain in the walls spying upon the adorable couple for more than a few moments at each visit. One can only listen to innocent conversation for so long before one becomes nearly as bored as those engaged in it. One can only watch a brilliant man allow a girl half his age beat him at checkers a certain number of times before it ceases to be endearing and commences to be sickening. One can only listen to so many Operatic duets, for no matter what anyone tells you about Erik's voice being as addictive as an opiate, even a morphine addict reaches a saturation point. One can only listen to so many stories of Daaé's pious and generous father or Erik's poor unhappy mother. One can only hear Erik, suffering for his deformed face, innocently reading the orphaned young lady fairy tales like _La Belle et la __Bête_ so many times before one simply goes mad. On at least one occasion I paid a woman on the way home, not because there was no one I could persuade to lay with me for free, but because I needed so desperately to counteract the blinding purity that seemed to permeate that wretched little cellar house of ours.

The only times I ever deigned to stay were the nights that Erik worked his magic on Christine.

That's not to say he gave in to his urges. On the contrary, Erik never touched her during that entire two-week period. He turned himself inside out with pent-up lecherous yearnings and wanton desire, but he never touched her—or even her _dress _again after that first evening. Oh, certainly, he could have done anything he wished with her during those times when I suspected he was playing checkers, but when I visited with him while she was alone in her chambers, I had no cause to doubt him. The way his hands trembled ever so slightly, the way his usually calm and amiable demeanor seemed strained and forced, the way his poor skin stretched tauter still than usual over his bony visage, but mostly I knew he kept his word because I saw the lust shining in his eyes. Poor Erik!

"Forget it," I told him at the end of the first week. "Stop this nonsense before it affects your health." His jaw was rather completely healed, but I was noticing a particularly large blood vessel pulsating at his temple in a manner that made me rather expect his head was about to explode.

He laughed and looked sorely tempted for a moment. "I wish I could," he said. "Oh, how I wish... and yet, I cannot. I have set the goal, and I will achieve it. I understand it at last.... fasting, I mean. Have you ever fasted?"

I shrugged. My mother was always talking about such things. I had no particular interest in the religions of any of my ancestors on either side. Apparently going several days without solid food had gotten Erik thinking, though. "Not really," I said. "Though surely I've been hungry; we discussed this once before."

Erik looked menacing when he grinned. "Yes, hungry," he mused. "I thought I knew hunger as well... But imagine a buffet of all the most delectable foods, and you are _not at all _hungry. It is a sin, is it not? Ah, but if you were on the verge of starvation how thoroughly you would savor every bite!"

"I don't know," I wondered aloud. I considered the picnic lunch in the tomb once again. Had I been hungrier still.... "Maybe if I were starving I would be so consumed with filling myself I might not stop to savor anything."

His eyes shone, glassy, watery. I marveled at it. "Ah, but that is where the self-restraint comes in."

I nodded, though I really had no concept. With Erik holed up down below, officially on holiday as far as anyone above knew, I was having far more success than usual, and I was savoring every moment entirely, though I was far from starving. It was indeed _exactly _like a buffet of all the most delectable foods. I hadn't thought a bit about self-restraint in quite a number of days.

Meanwhile, Erik clenched his fists and trembled.

Despite how he suffered, he was still somehow able to work his magic with Christine. Now, for _that _I did park myself behind the wall to listen.

It started with that night that he touched the hem of her dress, yes, but that was the closest he ever came to touching her. The following day he was more distant, interacting with great care not to touch her hand or her elbow. The next day, he would not even sit very near to her. I recognized the main theme of our old primary tactic. Certainly the girl was already feeling sorry for him. Now he was "disinterested," or something like it. He explained once that he was feeling unworthy of her, which naturally made her attempt to persuade him otherwise. Another time he reminded her that she was a good girl and he was not so virtuous; he did not trust himself, but he would not harm her, and so he kept his distance.

I had been certain from the girl's chaste reputation and her previous fear of Erik that she had harbored absolutely no desire that he touch her, but somehow now that he stated he would never do so, she seemed to immediately crave it. Not that she _said_ so, mind you. Such an innocent would never _say_ so. Oh no. But I could tell by the way she bent over him admiring the way he shuffled the deck of cards while he was showing her a trick or watching intently as he rosined his violin bow. And when it was time for her to go off to bed, she would often linger for many, _many_ moments as though hoping he might kiss her goodnight. She laughed a little too delightedly at his dull jokes, and once, when it somehow served his purpose to revert to his tears and self-loathing routine, she knelt in front of him, took out a little lace handkerchief from her pocket and dared to try to gently dab his eyes.

But he pushed her away and on that night—on the night he would not let her dry his tears—I was certain I felt her longing for him as strongly as I felt his for her. Oh, she was young and inexperienced, certainly: a pure virginal beauty like the maidens to whom unicorns always come in the old fairy tales, yes. She surely had no idea what the strange feeling below her stomach was and why it drew her to the strange man whom she called her captor, but I knew, and Erik knew. Surely Erik could smell her desire when she stood so close to him. And surely this is why, even when she offered something as innocent as a handkerchief, he pushed her away. Erik's self restraint during this period was absolutely inconceivable; I have no doubt that had she touched him, even lightly beneath the eyes, the handkerchief would have met an unhappy fate and he would have devoured the girl whole.

Erik, at least, understood what cravings he fought, and knew how to assuage them when they became unbearable. The poor girl, however, surely knew only that she wanted something—something she could not comprehend, let alone name!— something that her body instinctively knew only a man could give her. This man, any man, merely _a man_. Surely this is why began to pester Erik that he never did anything with her. Desperately I stifled snickers with into my hands as she complained, "If you are to keep me a prisoner here, we might as well do _something _together, Erik!"

"A prisoner," he would then say in his saddest tones. "Is that what you are, Christine? A prisoner? Go then, if you wish." Somehow, though, she never actually _went._

Other times he would respond more light-heartedly. "My darling," he would laugh, in a tone that made him seem twice is thirty some odd years, "We _are_ doing something. We are—" and he would fill in whatever mindless and innocent pastime presently occupied them whether it be reading or playing checkers or cards or drinking tea—anything at all. Then she would offer up a frustrated sigh to which he would respond, "It is enough for me simply to be in your presence, Christine. Erik does not need to _do _anything."

I don't know what virtuous women do for entertainment, but surely they do _something_, for the child was bored out of her mind. It is likely for that reason that she wrote the letter to Raoul, le Vicomte de Chagny. Of course, she would claim that it was because Erik held her captive, but there are _so_ many ways out of the house on the lake, and I never noticed little Christine looking for one.

Erik noticed it too. The boredom, I mean. Not the letter. It seems his response was to take her for a drive in a carriage one evening.

"You are restless," he said after a long silence. "Perhaps..." He pretended to struggle with the idea, for as far as Christine knew, he rarely went out, was loathe to show his face in public. "Perhaps we might go for a drive."

It would have been a fine choice, to be sure, had he not thought of it just after the nick of time; the letter to Raoul was already written, and, that night Christine threw it out the window in the hopes that it might be delivered.

Or perhaps Christine had simply determined that Erik was not interested in her as anything more than a singing protégée. That is rather how he played it, to be honest. That is not to say he didn't exude the temptation he always did—he did; but he never admitted it, sending Daaé mixed messages and surely driving the girl to distraction. It was his same old trick multiplied to the infinite power. Sometimes he played not-interested-in-pleasures-of-the-flesh while other times he played I-am-not-worthy-of-you, but at all times he played upon her emotions so that she was in constant conflict. It is no wonder at all that Christine sought out the calm and predictable Raoul de Chagny.

Her timing was terribly misplaced, however, for if she had held her letter just a bit longer instead of throwing it out the window randomly where it landed in a puddle and became sodden immediately, she could have thrown it directly to the boy himself when he happened to pass by and scream her name.

Yes, I know that Erik and Christine encountered the boy that evening on their drive. I know, because I was their driver. The boy came at us quite suddenly and reached for the head of the horse, so I turned suddenly and whipped it into a frenzy. Meanwhile someone slammed the window closed in the back, and though the casual reader of Monsieur Leroux's novel would assume it was the jealous and angry Erik, considering the distance between the two parties and the proximity of Mademoiselle to the window, one can be certain it was none other than she who closed it.

Why would she do such a thing, I wondered? Why indeed? If she loved Erik—ah, love! Such a convoluted concept: Let us try again—if she _wanted_ Erik, she would not have thrown that letter out, and yet, if she wanted Raoul, she would not have slammed that window closed. Perhaps she changed her mind in that brief expanse of time? Or perhaps she alternately wanted first one and then the other. It is a possibility, yes? Oh, perhaps ladies feel that way too! Or possibly she played the same game Erik and I played. Is such a thing possible? I daresay it is, for La Sorelli certainly played it, that is for sure, but then, Daaé is no Sorelli either.

The letter, I later learned, encouraged young Raoul de Chagny to meet her at the bal masque. Oh! The bal masque! I have entirely forgotten to tell you!

* * *

**Shameless Begging for Reviews:** Okay, folks... We're down to the last week of summer (well, for me anyway) and I've been frantically racing to get ahead on this story so that when I have to return to work, I can still post for you. But of course, that means I'm also a bit ahead, which means I might be persuaded to throw in an extra chapter every now and again. Don't forget to be encouraging!

A last minute deal: Hey. I know it's annoying as hell when people say "I'm holding this chapter hostage until I get x number reviews..." because it's like... "well.... /I/ reviewed... it's not /my/ fault if everyone else didn't..." On the other hand, I want to post again ALREADY and... well... 30 of you have read (and that's like 1/2 of you!) and 6 of you have reviewed (that's sort of around 1/2 the normal number, depending if the chapter is really funny or just mildly funny) so I'm thinking... I want to post again but I should wait till I hit 10... So, I guess I'm considering offering every time we get to 10 reviews for a chapter, I'll post another one, even if it's not Sunday or Wednesday. In exchange, I hope if you get to the chapter after it already has it's 10 and you either usually review or you have something to say, you still leave me a comment, okay? Last year this time I posted a chapter a day for a couple of weeks to get to the end of a story I really wanted to finish... and it's NOT out of the question for this year, either. Of course, I MIGHT need a little help with the details getting through that grasshopper and scorpion scene. Madame Faust and Mominator, I mean you. HELP!!!


	33. Cap of Astrakhan

Author's Note: I would like to say a little something about the Persian and his Astrakhan hat from the Leroux novel. One often sees him in art wearing a fez in fan art, but a fez is not at all an Astrakhan hat, but a FEZ. Of course, that's to be expected, because he's Persian and fezes (?) are very popular in the middle and far east, especially in in countries which are predominantly Muslim. Astrakhan hats are from Russia, which makes no sense as regards the Persian, unless it was he who traveled to Russia to encourage Erik to come and work for the Shah when Erik was in Nijni Novgorod after the gypsies talked about his show all the way to Persia. (That's the idea that Susan Kay went with, and it's one of the few places where I think she didn't screw up. I mean, at least that makes logical sense!) Of course, it's not the only way the Persian could have gotten it. He could have visited Russia another time, bought it from one of the gypsies who had also been through Russian, gotten it from any other trader, or gotten it from Erik. Of course, why he'd want one while living in Persia is sort of a mystery--those hats are fur and AWFULLY warm. Of course, it may be that he obtains it once he gets to France, since Paris would be so much colder than Mazanderan. And of course, all of POTO takes place in January, so maybe he doesn't really wear it "all the time" but just when it's cold, which would all of Leroux's novel. Anyway, of course, my version of Erik and my version of the Persian have never been to Russia... So he'll have to acquire the hat another way. Oh! But one more thing die-hard Leroux fans might like to know: Astrakhan hats are made from the wool of what is known as a "Persian lamb." Perhaps that explains why Leroux, a Frenchman, would have associated that type of hat with a Persian.

Humor Warning: Lots to look out for if I did this right... I may have even gone too far. Can one go too far in a comedy?

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not even I an Astrakhan hat! ::sniffle::

* * *

Oh, I wish you could have been there to see Erik's reaction when he learned of the masquerade ball in honor of the birthday of... well, I've forgotten his name by this point, but he was some local artist. One of the followers of Gavarni. Whatever the case, it was one of those events that promised to be attended by everyone—artists and aristocrats alike. And as everyone would be masked, it was very likely a bit of riff raff would show up as well. I will not lie—I intended to be part of the riff raff from the moment Erik told me. I cannot believe I have gotten so wrapped up in the story of Christine Daaé that I have forgotten to _tell_ you!

Erik's reaction was beyond elated. No, it wasn't the night off that all the sceneshifters would get, for you may have noticed that Erik did not usually work particularly hard at work. It seemed he always found a way to either finagle time off or else enjoy his time at the Opera so thoroughly that no one in his right mind would have called it "work." No, it was the idea of getting all dressed up for a masquerade that delighted Erik so.

I do wonder how he managed to contain himself enough to act professionally in the presence of the managers, and if he needed to shut himself alone in a prop room to secretly jump about throwing his fists in the air excitedly for a few moments to expend his extra energy before quietly hailing a cab and looking disinterested in everything whenever the driver happened to glance back at him.

I had been sitting by the window of our flat reading a book when I heard the carriage door slam. I glanced out. Erik bolted from the carriage without waiting for change from the bill he handed the driver and dashed up the steps. He managed to find his way up the steps to our flat at a full run without tripping over himself, but as he flung open the door he stumbled inside finally losing all his grace. I set aside my book carefully and rose. Something exciting was surely happening.

"Guess what's happening at the Opera?" Erik shouted too loudly, and I winced at the sharp sound. I would have replied, "An opera," in a dry sarcastic tone, but I didn't have the time. Before I could open my eyes again fully he accosted me suddenly and dragged me about the room.

"It's a masquerade ball!" he fairly _squealed_ with delight, gripping me by both hands and pivoting in such a fashion that I was made to revolve about him or else trip over my own feet and fall.

"Compose yourself, man," I teased, still spinning.

We stopped abruptly and the world kept going dizzyingly.

Erik drew a deep breath. "I am going as... _myself_!" he cried out triumphantly with raised arms.

"Which one?" I dared to ask.

"No, Daroga, my _true_ self," he said and he ripped off his work-nose from his face with such ardor that I jumped at the sudden reappearance of... well... the Erik I have always known.

"But you're the Opera ghost that way," I argued. "You'll give yourself away and there will be no more fun after that."

He nodded seriously and held up one finger. "I must make it look like I am wearing a costume!" he said. He cast his nose to the coffee table and paced about the parlor. "Oh yes! A costume that _looks _like the Opera ghost! And perhaps a few people—those pesky new managers, perhaps!—will think to suspect that it truly _was _the Opera ghost who came and walked among them that evening. Oh, it will be so delightful! What will _you_ be?"

"What?"

"I said 'What will _you_ be?'"

I shrugged. "I don't know, Erik! You've only just told me about it a moment ago. I'll certainly be there, that's for certain, but I don't know how I'll dress just yet.

"Something _Persian_," he joked.

"I am most certainly not going as anyone Persian. It's a masquerade. You dress up as something you're not. Isn't that the point? _You_ be someone Persian."

"But I'm going as the Opera ghost," he said, a little timidly. "I _really _wanted to be the Opera ghost."

"But you _are_ the Opera ghost," I said lamely. "Doesn't it defeat the purpose of a _masquerade_?"

He looked daunted for a moment, then was suddenly excited once again. "Of course not!" he thundered. "Do we not _all_ masquerade _every_ day? Does not a masquerade give us the chance to be our _true_ selves?" Then his tone got high-pitched and silly. "I can't wait to see you in one of those little hats...!" He squinted at me and held up his hands to make a little box above my head.

"What? A fez? Surely you jest." I shoved him out of my way and headed into another room saying, as I went "I wouldn't be caught dead in a fez."

"Well, _good_," Erik said, following me. "You wouldn't be any fun at a party if you were dead."

I rolled my eyes.

"Let's _go_!" he insisted.

"Where?"

"Back to the Opera!"

I sighed. "Haven't you just come from the Opera?"

He nodded vigorously.

"Worked a twelve hour day this time?"

His head bobbed again.

"You want to go back already?"

"I need to put my costume together!" he whined like a child.

"You could have stayed and worked on that if you wanted, you know."

He drew back sharply, tucking his chin. "Without you? Why, it wouldn't have been any fun without you!"

I couldn't stay irritated with him when he talked that way, naturally. I dropped my head and grinned at him. "No fez," I warned him "But I'll go with you. I have no ideas for a costume yet."

"We'll find you something splendid," he said.

"Something simple is fine."

"Something elegant."

"I don't want to stand out too much," I said.

"Let's _go_," he insisted.

I managed to grab a cloak and a winter scarf before I let him pull me down the front steps.

"We'll walk and look for a taxi," he suggested impatiently when a carriage was not readily available.

"Sure," I said tightening wrapping my cloak about my shoulders. It wasn't terribly cold yet, but it would be as soon as the sun slipped over the horizon. Erik urged me along as though there were some emergency and we reached the Opera in record time for walking. I was winded but no worse for wear. We skulked around the foundation and when no one was looking slipped in through our usual choice of secret entrance.

We raided the costume area and within moments were loaded down. I carried a red suit, a bolt of red velvet fabric (Erik intended to make a cape) a red cavalier's hat, and a handful of purple feathers (I had no idea why). Erik staggered beneath the weight of a sewing device pilfered from the seamstresses' room but it did not impede his ability to keep an eye out for more supplies.

"We need that, and that, and that," he said, nodding his head at various bolts. At last he went and found a small, wheeled cart and loaded everything in. "Let's see," he murmured, taking stock. "Suit, fabric for cape, hat, feathers, gold trim, ribbons. We need makeup. Otherwise, I'm set. Haven't you decided yet?"

I shrugged.

Erik lifted a furry cap and held it out to me.

"Ridiculous," I said.

He put it upon my head. "Very nice."

"No," I said.

"You can dress as a Cossack."

"No!" I knocked the hat away.

"Well, choose _something_, then."

"I don't have to decide today," I complained. Erik reached into a pile of fabric and rooted about. At last, he pulled forth a jester's cap and put it on my head. I refused to even smile at him. "Oh, that's it! That's it! That's the one for you. Oh! Yes! An un-funny jester." And he doubled up with laughter.

"All right." I had to admit, it was mildly amusing. "Where's the rest of it?"

"We'll find it." We pieced together the jester's costume fairly easily. Apparently the fool is a common enough character that several costumes were available.

I threw everything together into the cart and began to push it in the direction of the lake house.

Walking behind me, Erik pushed the furry Russian hat down over my ears.

"Very amusing," I told him and brushed it off. He picked it up and put it on me again. I took it off and stopped walking to turn around so abruptly that he ran into me. I shoved the hat at him.

"It looks good on you," he whined.

"It doesn't go with the jester suit," I insisted.

Erik smiled his broad crooked-toothed smile. "No," he agreed. "But it goes with _you._"

I snatched it from him. "Fine," I said, and I slammed the ridiculous thing onto my head. "Happy now?"

He snickered. "_Immensely_ so."

I planned to dispose of the curly stupid looking thing at my earliest convenience into a refuse pile, a fire, even onto the head of a beggar, perhaps, on the way home, but the wind was especially cold that night, and taxis were few.

Erik shivered beside me, complaining that he had forgotten his nose in our haste when we left the flat and that the cold air was giving him a dreadful headache. Contently warm in my new Astrakhan hat, I lent Erik my scarf, not out of sympathy, but out of self-preservation. Truly, there is nothing more annoying than Erik when he has a head cold.

* * *

Shameless Begging for Reviews: I've had a real hell of a day, and it's only 11:00 a.m. The person this story is dedicated to moved out claiming that I threw her out, which I didn't, and... well... I had to take my car to the shop, my hard drive of my old computer got fried (I'm still waiting for Carbonite to finish restoring the backup. Thank goodness RDJT was on a thumb drive, eh?) I have to have the bathroom regrouted (water leaks out the foundation of my house) and I have to have a complete lawn sprinkler installed because the old one is... well... not worth fixing. And it's all happening today. Ugh! So please, please, PLEASE don't abandon the story this late in the game; It's sort of the only positive thing I've got going right now (I'm still waiting to see if my photography is completely wiped out with no hope of return) and could totally use the feedback--especially if the feedback is ALSO funny. And can anyone recommend any other humor fics? I desperately need something to laugh at, and my own work just isn't doing it for me at the moment. I enjoyed _Diary of a Mad Vicomte_, but I don't think the author is updating right now...


	34. La Mort Rouge Qui Passe

**Author's Note:** Hi. This is an early bonus post on Friday afternoon because I wanted to make a very important announcement, and this is the easiest way I know to reach you all. I don't expect to be online on Saturday, so I'll check out your feedback on Sunday. In the meantime, please check out my deviant art account. My name over there is BldngHrtCnsrvtv and THE ERIK PLUSH PROTOTYPE IS FINISHED AND POSTED!!!

**Humor Warning:** Mostly funny, I think. Be careful.

**Disclaimer:** I own Rasheed, anyway...

HEY!! The site is back up and running, so it's possible to leave a review now!

* * *

That happened _before _the abduction. Ah, but I must stop calling it that!

Stop calling it an abduction, Erik keeps insisting. I told you I did it only because she was so frightened by the chandelier trick. Really, she is such a child! Such an innocent child. Remember, she believed me to be ephemeral at that time, yes? She believed me to be an angel. And yet, she rushed to her dressing room in sheer terror begging me to speak to her and assure her that I was unhurt. It made me wonder for a moment if perhaps she knew all along I was merely me. Oh, if the girl knew Erik was merely Erik, then it is _she _has played all _us_ for fools!

But as I said, the bal masque was planned far before the abduc—the _acquisition _of Christine Daaé, but the... erhm... the _acquirement_ of the girl... distracted us so much that we nearly missed the ball entirely.

Originally our plan had been to attend together and work the crowd of ladies as a team, but to keep to our original idea would have meant leaving Christine in the fifth cellar alone where she would miss the celebration. No matter, I said. I figured a sweet honest girl like that wouldn't have any desire to be involved with the drinking and debauchery that was a night at the Opera, but Erik wouldn't hear of it.

"You'd have her miss an event like this? It's a crime. A sin. Surely it would be a tragedy! No. No, indeed. I won't do it. She'll accompany me to the ball."

Poor Christine! Erik scarcely had time to throw together a costume for her. A black hooded cloak, one of his black masks and there she was: hardly fit to walk beside him in that velvet cape he had spent weeks embroidering in gold: _Ne me touchez pas!_ Touch me not! _Je suis la Mort rouge qui passe!_ I am the red Death who passes! The cape was stunning, the hat exquisite, and the suit itself, both elegant and gaudy at once, but all this paled in comparison to Erik's _mask_. A bit of the white powder the dancers wore lightly dusted his natural features. A bit of a darker grayish powder smoked the area around his eyes. His eyes, his teeth, the hole where a nose should have been, all his own. But the greatest achievement was a simple red ribbon. He cut it in half, fastened a piece to the skin on each side just below the temples with a sticky substance he picked up in costuming and tied them together in the back. Oh yes. What a mask!

Of course, the night of the ball coincided almost perfectly with the end of Erik's two weeks. It meant that unless he was willing to give himself a few hours of leeway, he would be spending most of the party exercising restraint. Two hours past midnight, though, and he was a free man. Of course, the ball would last well past that. A number of young artists were planning only _to arrive_ at midnight

That evening Christine readied herself in her chamber, oblivious to the fact that I, too, was Erik's guest. We readied ourselves together coaching one another in the absolute absence of mirrors. Erik put on a tragic expression, willed his eyes to glisten and proclaimed, "Christine will be so proud that I dare to show my wretched face in public." His tone conveyed he was rather proud of his own sorry self.

"You're evil," I complained.

He swirled his cape about his shoulders, took off his hat and bowed deeply.

It was good to have him momentarily distracted from what he hadn't done for two weeks, for in a few hours, two weeks of self-denial would be over.

Of course, since Christine did not know of my existence, let alone my presence in the house, I went above before she emerged. Erik and Christine arrived moments after me, likely because Erik didn't trust himself to be alone with her more than a moment. I noticed when they arrived that she did not walk on his arm the way the other couples entered but that she simply walked beside him, her gloved fingertips clutched together. His gripped one another behind his back.

They arrived together but it was mere moments before they were separated. I have no doubt that Christine thought that she was sneaking away from Erik and was thrilled to be so successful at losing him in the crowd. If only she knew that he had been waiting for her to disappear in order to carouse with me for a portion of the evening as promised. She slipped away from him without noticing that he sneaked away from her. I chuckled behind my gaudily painted clown's mask.

I could have my share of fun later, but while Erik remained free, I remained at his side as he sauntered about purposely attracting attention and occasionally accidentally stirring up trouble. It started the moment he entered. "Well, well," someone said as he entered. "What have we here?"

"The Red Death," he said. His lips never moved, for everyone had to think his face a mask.

"Scary," whoever had spoken first responded.

Erik's golden eyes rolled in their sockets and another voice commented, "Oh, those eyes! So realistic!" Erik stalked by without reply. No one noticed Christine at his side, and no one noticed when she disappeared.

"'Don't touch me,'" a lady read aloud. "'I am the Red Death who passes.' Well, that's such a beautiful cloak. Who is he?"

Erik turned and flashed her a horrid grin. She shivered. "Oh, isn't that splendid! It moves!" Erik moved toward her a bit but she backed away. "That's all right. I can see you splendidly from here. Beautiful. Beautiful. But a little scary."

Erik's laugh was deep in his belly.

I appeared beside him. "Greetings."

"Good evening."

"I see you're the center of attention already." He grinned hideously at me. "Stop that," I said.

As we passed through the ballroom, one gentleman told another "You see that there? That's the Red Death passing through."

"What's that?"

"I said 'It's the Red Death passing through.' See there."

"Oh, yes. Stunning. That was surely a lot of work."

"Let's go get a drink," I suggested.

It became the pattern of the evening—I suggested something, and on the way there, something happened that interfered with our plans.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** Please please please leave me a quick little review, okay? Reviews have been down. I imagine some of you are just busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest, but if you have a few seconds (and that's really all it takes) please leave me a comment. Also, don't forget to go see the Leroux Erik Plush toy finally posted at my deviant art account, BldngHrtCnsrvtv. Thanks!

REVIEWS ARE ACTUALLY WORKING AGAIN. PLEASE DO LEAVE ONE!


	35. An Important Issue

No, this is not the next chapter. Sorry. FFN has been down for so long that I'm not even sure if anyone has read the previous chapter. If you did but FFN didn't let you leave a review, if you have a few moments I'd appreciate some input on that one. Thanks!

Meanwhile, I have to ask you something important, and this is the best way to reach everyone.

As you know, I have this listed as "T" and as "humor/romance" and I'd like to leave both of those in place. I've been trying to work ahead and so I have just finished a short piece from Erik's point of view (you'll see how that figures in in just a bit) but it goes a bit further than I'd go in a "T" rated piece. So, I have the choice to either a) tone it down, b) leave it out, c) change my rating to M or d) leave it out of this piece but provide a reference and tell you where to find it so that everyone old enough to read M and/or everyone with parental consent to read something M can go there.

Right now, D is the option I'm most fond of. I like option D because if I just tone it down (a) or leave it out (b) there are some adult readers who might be let down. I've already had a few of the younger readers tell me, though, "I really don't want to you to change it to M because I like it and I want to read the rest," so if I change the rating (c) I let those folks down, which I don't want to do.

Before I officially decide to go with option D, though, I'd like to hear from some of you, please.

Here's how I would handle it:

I would call the chapters that are too M for the main post "Racy Excerpts from the Real DJT." I'd post them right after the chapter that proceeds them so it wouldn't break my Sunday/Wednesday/Sunday/Wednesday posting schedule. If you're over 18 or have parental consent, you'd read both sets of posts, and if you're not, you'd just wait for the next regular rotation. I'm not responsible for making sure you are the age you say you are or that you really do have parental consent, but at least I put the warnings out there and you just need to be responsible and such.

What do you think? Does that work for everyone? If you reply as a review, everyone can see everyone else's thoughts. That's nice, don't you think? Or should I create a survey instead?

I'll put the next chapter up soon, I promise!


	36. Temptation

**Author's Note:** I do apologize for the long wait on this. I wanted to post on Sunday, but FFN was wildly broken all this time, so I'm posting today. That's okay. We're still not too far off schedule. I'm back to work and also I have a lot going on in my life at the moment that I'm not quite ready to share just yet, so posting may slow down. On the other hand, I've gotten a couple of chapters ahead, so if I start getting a feedback craving, I might post again soon. We'll just have to play it by ear.

**Humor warning:** This one is short, but I think amusing. I hope you enjoy it. (I broke it where I did because of topic. Sorry for the shortness.)

**Disclaimer:** Very soon I will own a beautiful plush rendition of Erik. One Erik is enough for anyone, so please plan to buy one of the remaining 248 so they don't get trapped in my garage for the rest of eternity, which is a fate worse than death.

* * *

We were on our way through the main foyer when a woman all in blue and silver with glitter and sequins accosted us suddenly.

"Bernardo!" she said suddenly, her voice a breathy whisper. "It is Bernardo under there, is it not?" And when he did not reply she continued "Oh, don't pretend you don't know me!"

I turned away and pretended to be entirely absorbed in taking a long draught of my drink so as not to appear to be listening to his conversation, which, of course, I was.

"I _know _it is you! I _easily _recognized you even at this distance when I saw you standing over there. I don't need to be able to see your face, silly darling! I would recognize the outline of your hips in those trousers anywhere.

It was at this point that my drink became something of an inconvenience. I spit most of it out as it threatened to drown me as soon as my laughter began. I sprayed the golden liquid in a most glorious arc in front of me before it landed wastefully on the polished marble. I shook my head and left Erik's side to refill my glass.

"Oh, Red Death! An amazing costume," I heard someone say at the bar. I rolled my eyes.

On the way back, I noticed not only Erik's narrow and apparently easily _identifiable_ hips but also the fact that the woman's arm was now gracefully wrapped around them. I crept up quietly to determine whether Erik was on the verge giving in a few hours early.

"But it has been so long," the woman bleated. "Let me take you home."

"Tonight, I have obligations here," he responded. "I will be missed. It simply isn't possible. Tomorrow. Or the next day. Every night for the rest of your life if you wish, but not tonight," Erik said quietly.

"I shall not be here every night for the rest of my life!" She batted her lashes prettily and put her free hand upon his as she leaned close. "But _right now_, I am." She said these words in a breathy tone right by his ear and he visibly stiffened at them.

"Oh, how I wish I could," he said wrapping an arm about her. "Oh, my darling... my sweet...." he murmured. "But tonight I am indisposed."

She smiled sweetly. "Oh," she said in the same breathy whisper, "that's a pity. Such a pity for you." She unwound herself from his skinny arm and sauntered away.

He put his drink to his lips. I noticed a slight flush to his face even through his white makeup. He downed the drink in a single gulp as I reached him. "Ah, _there_ you are, Bernardo," I said nonchalantly.

"There _you _are," he responded, taking my glass and repeating the gesture.

I glared at him and stalked away to obtain yet another drink. Meanwhile he gathered his long cloak about him as though to hide the shape of his hips. I snickered.

"Let's go." As I led him through the crowd, I made a point of saying "Careful everyone. Careful, careful. Stand aside. Red Death passing by." Onlookers ooohed and ahhhed and Erik was quite content in all the positive attention.

"Do not touch," people repeated, reading Erik's cloak. "I am the Red Death..."

But the ridiculousness of everyone reading Erik's cloak paled in comparison to the ladies who repeatedly approached him. That, too, was repeated several times that evening. A woman in a gown of gold and a half mask to match (who had had way to much too drink already) tripped up to him, grabbed him by both sides of his face and kissed him full on the mouth. "Take that stupid mask off so you can kiss me back," she said under her breath, and I recognized the voice in an instant as Carlotta's.

"Mmmmm..." Erik replied putting his supposed mask near to her face and rubbing his bony cheek against her soft rosy one. "How tempting an offer that is," he replied. "I daresay I shall take you up on that just as soon as the party ends, yes? Do not go far, darling."

"Careful! Don't touch. That's the Red Death, you see," a man walking by told the lady on his arm, and she was duly impressed.

"Perhaps the two of us shall go far _before_ the party ends, my dear?" Carlotta suggested coyly. She got especially close to Erik then so that their bodies were nearly touching. Oh, the things people feel they can do when a mask covers their face! I heard Erik's breath quicken, saw the fingers of his hand begin to tremble as they did in the cellar when Christine got too close.

Should he give in early? Oh, but what was the fun in that?

"The two of you?" I questioned, placing myself near them, then thrusting myself between them. "The _two_ of you? Now, _that's_ hardly fair," I said, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks beneath my own mask. "What about _me_? Perhaps the _three of us_. Or perhaps you'd like to bring a friend or two? I know a place we can go... No? Oh, such a pity. Ah, but forget old red death, here. He's contagious and lethal. But I... oh, I shall make you laugh and squeal with delight...." I managed to get a handful of her derrière in one hand and give it a gentle coaxing squeeze. She demured. "No? Maybe later then. If you'll excuse me, Death and I have a date with a card game, I believe."

Erik put a hand heavily upon my shoulder. "Many thanks," he choked.

I shrugged. "I'm enjoying this," I told him and gulped what remained of the drink in my hand. "I'd hate to see you fail."

"Whoa-ho!" Someone said nearly bumping into Erik. "Don't touch! Sorry!" and as he walked away someone else near by murmured, "Do not touch... Red Death... Passing..."

Erik leaned heavily upon me. "Thank you for that last," he said in a tone tinged with pain. "I rather think I might have given in just then if you hadn't intervened. A week, six days and nineteen and three-quarters of an hour gone to waste!"

"Come on," I said pulling him by his velvet and feathers. "There is a game waiting for us."

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** Well, FFN is finally back up and running, and reviews are at an all time low from when it was down, so please, please review


	37. Raoul and Christine

**Author's Note:** Greetings, all! This is officially the Sunday post, but it's being posted late Saturday night because it can be.

**Humor Warning****:** We had another food and drink mishap recently, so it's time we do this now:

R E A D E R S:

It has been

2

days since our

last accident.

Safety first

Do not eat or drink  
while reading humor fics!

**Disclaimer****:** I don't own a white domino, either, so if Christine urged ME to show up last minute, it couldn't have happened. (Hmmm... Raoul pretends he's all embarrassed, but where did he get such a costume so fast if it was so mortifying?)

* * *

We headed in the direction of one of the smoking rooms when I happened to notice a black domino followed closely by a white domino headed in our direction. I elbowed Erik and indicated them with a nod of my head. Christine hurried past, masked face turned downward, scurrying to get past Erik as though she might not be noticed. But the boy, the boy in the white mask and cape stopped. And turned. And looked Erik directly in the face.

"Perros!" his voice said through his mask.

Erik looked back at him. "What?" he said, quite normally so that his jaw moved and anyone might have noticed that it was too sophisticated a mask to be a mask.

"Perros-Guirec!" Raoul repeated. "The Perros skull!"

Erik's eyes widened perceptibly. In my peripheral vision I saw the black domino impatiently and nervously waiting. Someone behind Erik read his cloak aloud again.

I met Erik's eyes. He seemed to read my mind. I grabbed his cloak. In an instant his hand shot out from his ornate cuff and clasped me about the wrist. I threw myself backward away from him and screamed with as much theatrical terror as I could muster, clawed at my own wrist with my free hand, and screeched as though in pain. An instant later Erik released his grip and I fell, quite naturally, onto my derrière in a most unseemly fashion, then scrambled to my feet and darted from the room. Erik followed, trudging like marauding death. Christine and Raoul "escaped" somewhere.

"Red Death!" I called leading Erik through the crowd. "Don't Touch!"

"Indeed." Erik said quietly beneath the collective voice of the crowd. "I feel as though I shall shatter if anyone else lays a hand upon me. Let us find something to distract ourselves, hm?"

A game of cards passed a mere half an hour, so Erik and I were on our way to treat ourselves to what promised to be particularly good cigars from some savagely exotic place when we were once again accosted from behind.

"Benvolio, is it you?" the high thin voice trilled.

"Benvolio?" I asked him under my breath in as derisive a tone as I could manage. He rolled his eyes and growled under this breath, "So, I enjoy English classics. Is that a crime in Paris?" He turned reluctantly to face the woman who had placed her hand on his shoulder before I could respond.

She wore a red gown and a gold mask and would have made an excellent companion for the red death, but Erik was not yet free. I glanced at my watch. No. Not yet. Meanwhile, she put both arms around Erik's skinny neck and draped herself down the front of him. She put her fingers over his mouth and pressed as though she knew it was his real face, but her words implied she fell for the mask trick.

"Hush. Don't answer. I know it is you. I would recognize your _ears _anywhere!" she said, and her pink little tongue darted out to make contact with the one nearest her. Erik seemed to melt into her, his hips pressing urgently against hers, his hands no longer under his power as they roved her back and inched downward, his face fully flushing through his makeup and beads of sweat appearing suddenly on his forehead. He moaned.

Thinking quickly, I shifted my voice to a high falsetto and screeched at him. "Benvolio! Benvolio, indeed! What do you _think_ you are _doing _and who is _this_ little wench?" Erik drew back and looked around in hot confusion. I grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. "Who is this tramp? Is this who you've been with instead of at home with Regan and Cordelia?" (I know some English theatre, too, you know!) I sobbed a high-pitched hurtful sound that I have sometimes heard women make. "What am I to tell them when they ask me why Papa is so seldom home, Benvolio? Shall I tell them you are out with this.... this..." I stuttered and stopped. Then I drew back my left hand and slapped him hard in the right cheek. Meanwhile, the lady in red hurried away through the crowd and escape the unpleasantness and leave her lover to offer his own explanations.

Erik's eyes went wide as he put his hand to his face suddenly.

"That's IT!" I screeched. "We're leaving!" I grabbed him by a fistful of cloak, turned on my heel and dragged him toward the foyer.

"Good God, Daroga!" he exploded when we escaped the crowd. "Why...." With his right hand he lightly fingered his reddened cheek. "That was entirely uncalled for!"

"It was for your own good, my friend," I told him.

"I am not at all certain I agree," he said, still dazed from the slap. "And for a dear friend, you are certainly beating me about the head and shoulders a bit too much for comfort."

I withdrew my watch hastily. "Get control of yourself then," I said. "It only another hour, Erik!"

He nodded dumbly. "An hour. Yes. That is certainly possible. Just an hour. An hour. I should like to be alone for a bit of that," he said dully. He turned to wander off down an empty corridor.

Before he could take more than a step from me, however, my eyes were drawn to movement down the corridor. It was a feminine form in a black domino leading a broader, stronger, white domino through a doorway that led to a staircase.

Erik must have seen them at the same instant I did, for he turned to me and mumbled, "That should certainly be sufficient to distract me," and hurried off in their direction.

He was gone then for surely most of that hour chasing the poor fools up and down stairs and into boxes and Lord only knows where else.

The clock had scarcely struck two when a cold bony hand gripped my arm. I turned. "Erik!"

"Christine waits for me in her dressing room. I will go to her now and we shall retire."

"But it's early yet!" I hissed. Early, _considering._ The party had really just begun, though I was already seeing nearly double.

He grabbed the back of my head roughly and brought my masked forehead to his bare one. His yellow eyes blazed feverishly through the eyeholes of my jester mask and blotted out all else."I will leave this blasted party now," he groaned through his teeth.

"As you wish," I returned. "But your two weeks is up at last. Maybe you'd like to..." I danced around a little, trying to imply he might catch up with all those women who had been laying hands on him all evening.

He turned away from me then, but with his hand upon the door he glanced back. "Christine Daaé is in her dressing room," he said meaningfully. Then he added, "_Pitying_ me."

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** I apologize for dragging out this bit where you get to enjoy Erik enjoying Christine. The more I look at it, it doesn't really even look that "M" to me. And its a couple posts away anyway. I apologize for jumping around, but Daroga is SO ADHD.... Anyway, please review. There are thousands of ways to say "funny"; just check your thesaurus.

* * *


	38. Returned!

Author's Note: Okay... It's Wednesday. So here's your Wednesday post. Thank goodness I'm ahead, because I haven't had much time to write lately. Please be patient with me.

Humor Warning: While this one isn't QUITE as funny as some of the others, be careful anyway. After all, some of you folks find stuff funnier than I expect you to.

Disclaimer: I hereby dis-claim everything.

* * *

When I saw him next, the stress was gone, and I easily reached the obvious conclusion. At first he told me only, "It is finished. I have released her." When he closed his eyes I could not tell if it was with exhaustion or relief.

Gradually, things reverted to normal. The house on the lake resumed its prior occupation. Our friends, the scene-shifters, returned before and after shifts. In the day, little breaks and brief naps occurred in various bedroom areas. In the evenings, parties commenced, usually filling the parlor and spilling into other areas. Fortunately only seven of us were assembled (though we were behaving a bit uproariously) when Christine Daaé returned.

Returned!

It was Erik's first word aloud: "Returned? Returned to me, my Christine?" But that came _after_ he froze in place for an instant as though in fear at the high feminine voice calling his name boldly from the entrance to the parlor. "Hide!" he ordered in a harsh whisper and we all rushed for our escape route. "Stay here," he hissed as he bustled the six of us into a hollow wall, "and wait until I give word to come out."

The others shrugged at one another. It was obviously Christine Daaé, I am sure they guessed, for she had disappeared suddenly, and as it had been attributed to the Opera ghost, if none of them had done it, it was surely Erik or me.

"But how did you get in, Christine my darling?" I heard him say. "You must never, _never _come when I am not expecting you. It is quite dangerous. The siren.... and other things... But how _did _you get _in_?" Then, "Ah ha. And where did you get _that_, my little pickpocket?"

He sounded almost menacing and I wondered what it was she held in her hand.

"I—I took it, Erik, when you sent me away. I was certain I heard you say it unlocked a gate on the Rue Scribe. I didn't mean to steal it, Erik. I was going to ask you. I was going to tell you that I would—Oh, but Erik! I couldn't bear the way we parted." She was silent a moment, then, "I _worried_ about you."

His voice was far from where hers had been. "Christine, Erik does not need your pity."

"Perhaps it isn't pity, Erik! Perhaps it is something more!" Her voice moved as she followed him.

He gave a bitter-sounding laugh. "Something more than pity? Be careful what you say, child!"

"Oh, Erik, how do you call me child after—after—"

I could hear the smirk on his face through the tone of his voice. "How can I call you more than a child when you cannot utter the word? Oh, Christine, really, you must go. Erik may be a monster, but he is also a man, and men have certain needs. If you were to stay, surely what happened once would happen again."

Silence.

Then, in a very quiet tone: "I understand that, Erik." Pause. "And I-- I know that married women have such duties..." Longer pause. "I know that some of the chorus girls engage in such activities as well." A _very_ long silence. "At the risk of being unseemly, Erik... No, I shan't say it. I shall say only that—that—well, Erik, I cannot claim that it would upset me... if it happened again."

In the dark of our hiding place, we men snickered and nudged one another at the inappropriateness of lady's words. Then someone—Jean Claude, I believe it was—struck a match and we could see each other's faces for a moment. In the dim light, I saw five maddening grins and I am sure my face was a perfectly mated match.

"No, no, Christine," Erik tried. "You have always been a good girl. And Erik... Erik is a monster."

"Yes, a monster," Francois said in a whisper that conveyed the inappropriate nature of the joke he was about to make. But then Jean Claude drew in a sharp breath and shook out the match as it began burning his fingers, and suppressing our laughter took all our control after that.

Meanwhile, Daaé continued to refuse to go and their voices moved a little further away as they retreated toward the bedroom with the Louis-Philippe furniture.

Michel decided they were far enough away to risk a whisper. "I can't see why we have to hide if it's just some little singer," he muttered.

"Truly," agreed Francois. "There is no reason the celebration cannot continue. We might invite a few more girls as well."

Suddenly Erik appeared and confirmed our suspicions. Christine refused to leave him tonight. The party, he said, would have to continue at the flat without him and resume in its appointed location after he could send her above again. I was nodding my assent when I noticed the atmosphere of the cramped secret room had changed upon Erik's opening the hidden door. The expressions on the faces of the other men fell, the good-natured joking instantly ceased, each one stiffened and looked away uncomfortably. My skin turned to gooseflesh. Something terrible had happened but it took me a moment to realize what. I looked from them to Erik and back again in confusion. Erik's face mirrored my confusion, until slowly my mind caught up with my vision. As casually as I could I moved my hand to my mouth as though to stroke the beard I do not have. As I did so, I met Erik's eyes meaningfully and massaged my nose between my thumb and forefinger.

His eyes widened and he stiffened as the others had. Then he disappeared suddenly as the wall panel slid closed.

The uncomfortable silence lingered after the man was gone. No one spoke. No one even made eye contact for a long time. At last I managed to remind everyone that we were standing in a very cramped area for no real reason when we could be making merry in an entirely available flat. When no one responded to that, I offered, "You can bring as many girls as you like _there._" Still no response. I rolled my eyes unintentionally. "So, he has a prosthetic _nose_, eh? There are _worse _things."

There was another long silence. At last, Jacques, (bless him!) uttered, "And here, all along I thought he had just _made up _that description of the ghost!"

Everyone laughed, and I felt that perhaps things might simply return to normal. But considering Erik's sudden disappearance, I offered my key to Jacques and asked him to give word to Darius that I would be late. I set off to find Erik.

I found him at the organ with his face in his hands. I made as much noise as I could falling through the secret entrance so he would know I was there. When he looked up, his expression was dry-eyed mortification.

* * *

Shameless Begging: Oh no! Poor unhappy Erik! Well, you couldn't expect that everything could go right all the time for him, could you? He's been under too much stress and he's starting to let things go. Hope this isn't the beginning of a trend... What ELSE could go wrong...?


	39. Poor Erik!

**Author's Note:** Just under the wire! It's 10:55 and I'm only JUST NOW posting my Sunday post. I'm sorry. Today was a ceremony called a Pidyod HaBen for the rabbi's first grandson, and as it's a pretty rare ceremony and I'd never been to one before, I just had to go. That was only a couple hours out of my day, but tomorrow is also the first day of school, so once I pushed everything back, I was sort of out of time. Even so, I'm going to post this before I go iron my 13-year-old's pants and go to bed.

**Humor Notice:** This chapter is not designed to be particularly funny. For those who find all sorts of oddness amusing, you may laugh anyway. Mostly, though, it's just plain pathetic, which sets us up for some other funniness later. So don't worry--I haven't gone entirely serious on you (yet).

Special Thanks: I just want to say thanks to Mominator and LadyFaust who are both helping me work out the details of the lovely ending of this whole mess. I need to share with each of you what the OTHER said, and then I need to decide what I'm using and what I'm saving for later and get writing. Sadly, my posting may have to slow down a bit as I work out the complicated parts (and work some more steamy stuff into those "M" chapters you're all waiting for.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own POTO (or a prosthetic nose).

* * *

"Good evening, Erik," I said as though nothing usual had happened.

His stare was blank. It was the most upset I had seen him save the night of Joseph Buquet.

"Erik?"

Silence.

I waved a hand in front of his face.

He sighed. "Sit, if you wish to stay," he said tonelessly.

I backed toward the coffin and glanced in. Erik didn't move. I grasped the lid with one hand and surreptitiously slipped the other inside. Silk bedding. I pressed gently. Indeed. Erik _had_ fitted the coffin with a mattress. I withdrew my hand and pushed the lid closed while glancing back at Erik to ensure he hadn't noticed my snooping. He continued to stare mindlessly at a point on the wall just beyond the organ. I boosted myself to sit upon to coffin. "So..." I said.

Erik did not respond.

I swung my legs, thudding my heels against the coffin sides. "So," I said again, "Where's Christine Daaé?"

"Her room."

I nodded. Waited.

"I told her I needed to be alone." A long pause. "This time, I did not even have to _pretend_ to be unhappy."

I nodded again. "So..." It was as if I could think of nothing to say but that word over and over! "So, will you be coming to the party or remaining here with Christine?"

He didn't move. "Neither," he mumbled at last.

I waited a long time. Then I forced myself to wait a few moments more. "What's the matter, Erik?" I said.

I was forced to endure another long silence before at last he turned to face me. "What can I say to them now?" he said.

The conversation went very slowly, for I had to think through everything so carefully, and Erik took what seemed hours to utter each of his responses.

"You don't need to say anything. Just be yourself."

He snorted, (noselessly, naturally). "Like I was at the bal masque," he bit off sarcastically.

"Sure," I said. "Or like you always are, any other day. It doesn't matter which."

He sighed again. I boosted myself back off the coffin and eased myself onto the bench beside him. He didn't look at me. After another eternity of silence I put a finger on a key and pressed. I released it suddenly as a loud sound came from the pipes above me. Then I grew bolder. Key, skip, key, skip, key. That should be a chord, then. I pressed. I could not resist smiling with delight. I left my thumb where it was and moved my middle and smallest fingers each up one. Glorious! I moved those two fingers back and tried moving the thumb down one. A terrible sound. Hm.

"Don't do that," Erik said flatly.

I took my hand away. "Sorry."

"It's here." His tone was still flat, but he touched the keys and produced a much more harmonious sound. "See?"

I shook my head. "Not really."

"Here."

Oh. Fourth and fifth fingers. I nodded.

"Or here." Suddenly those _other_ keys were involved.

"It's okay, Erik," I said. "I don't need to know."

"Or here," he continued, as though he hadn't heard me. He added his left hand and created a mournful sounding low tone. "Or even here... here... here..." Each word was punctuated by a chord still darker than the one before. He took a long slow breath. "Here." What he played threatened to bring tears to my eyes. I put my hands upon his, and he looked over at me.

"Stop," I said. "Just _tell_ me what's the matter."

He heaved another heavy sigh. The lengthening silence had just pushed me to a point where I was about to stand and leave when at last he said, "Nothing is going according to plan."

I waited.

"Michel, Jacques, Pierre..."

He trailed off, seeming to have forgotten who had been present. "Jean-Claude" I supplied. "And François," I supplied. "They're going to the flat. Jacques will explain to Darius that Christine is here."

Erik put his face in his hands yet again. "How will I face them now? Like this?"

It took me a moment to calculate. "The same way you faced the entire world ten years ago."

A bit of the Erik I remembered returned as he became cross with me instead of listless. "I did not work _here_ ten years ago!"

"Well, you do now."

He put his face in his hands and bent far forward so that if he'd had a nose, it would have been between his knobby knees. "I know, I know," he moaned.

Pragmatism was getting me nowhere, so I tried another tact. "Erik," I said, and this time I put my hand on him—just lightly on his back to begin—"How long have we been friends?" He didn't answer. "A long time, yes?" He nodded. "And _that_ hardly seems to matter, yes?" He shrugged. "I was your friend before such a thing mattered, yes?" He nodded again, harder this time. I patted him lightly. "And these men, they are your friends?" He shrugged and I was forced to ask again. He nodded weakly. "Then they will be your friends long after such things no longer matter." No response. I squeezed his shoulder.

"You know, it didn't not matter to the Lefèbvre sisters." He shook his head hard in his lap. "No, you're right, you're right. I had forgotten. That was after. Sorry. But it didn't matter with... with... with Mademoiselle..." How had I forgotten her name? Twenty years prior she had been the light of my life, but one encounters so many women in twenty years! "It did not matter to..." I paused in my patting of Erik's back to focus. "To..." I snapped my fingers. "Sofia! It did not matter in the least to Sofia."

"Women are different than men," he muttered through his hands. Perhaps it was true. I had been about to confess I had heard what his mother said to him all those years ago, but if women were different....

"It did not matter to your father, or to your uncle," I continued.

"Family," he moaned.

"Or to my parents."

"Charitable souls."

"Or to Darius."

"Looked up to his older brother too much to think for himself."

I sighed. He was being utterly unreasonable.

"It has never, _never _mattered to me."

He took a slow deep breath and nodded slightly. _Progress._

"Look at it this way. Now the secret's out, you don't have to go around dreading what might happen if you ever happen to sneeze."

At that a single breath escaped him as a laugh, then he sat upright to nod seriously at me. An instant later he sighed heavily again and slumped forward, elbows upon knees, head upon fists.

"What _now_?" I pressed him.

He sighed again. "Christine is back and that's a fine thing, essentially. I enjoyed her immensely. We enjoyed one another. It was a like a dream, a fairytale, something very exotic. That's nice. But she stole our key, do you see? She is innocent in so many ways, but perhaps not _all_. And she insists she has not shown anyone the key, but that could change. _That could change_. She could be the end of all our fun here. Oh, I am a fool!"

"You're not a fool, Erik," I said. I noticed, to my complete surprise, that I had had one arm wrapped around his torso for quite some time and was now reassuringly rubbing my hand and up and down his arm.

"You warned me of this," he continued. "You told me not to give Joseph Buquet that description of the Opera ghost."

"It's alright Erik," I said, pulling him to put his worried head on my shoulder. "You'll think of something." I waited a moment while that sunk in. "You _always_ do," I added.

He sighed and pulled himself together. "Yes, I suppose you're right."

"Of course I am."

"It could be worse," he said.

"Oh, much," I agreed.

"It's not as though we're caught," he said.

"Certainly not."

"And Daaé is only here to visit me a few days."

"Of course."

"It is not as if I must marry her or anything."

"No, no. Of course not, Erik."

"Well, all right then." He stood and brushed at his trousers, though he was already impeccably clean, as usual. "I suppose I ought to explain to Christine that I will need the entire evening to recover from the shock of her return."

I shook my head quickly and opened my eyes wider to give him an incredulous look.

He sighed, this time a sound of pitying me in my ignorance. "Isn't there a party at the flat?"

I grinned. "Indeed," I said slowly. "I believe there is."

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** Reviews please? They're what keep me going! (And now we're nearing the end... you do want to know how it turns out, don't you???)


	40. The Scorpion and the Grasshopper

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the lack of Wednesday post. Life has gotten even busier, and I'm just utterly exhausted and needing to rest up. I think we'll go to once a week for a while until things slow down a bit at home and at work. Thanks to all those who reviewed last chapter, and again, please accept my apologies for the posting slow-down.

**Humor Warning:** I apologize for the couple of un-funny chapters that slipped by. I hope this one is a bit better.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the grasshopper and the scorpion, either... :-(

* * *

Poor Erik. He tried awfully hard to be the same Erik he always was, back in his usual nose, but he just couldn't manage it. With the nose had gone his confidence, which cannot simply be pushed it into an open orifice to stick there. We ended up with quite a large number of ladies--not the innocent Daaé types, but a looser variety which included some women whose reputations preceded them as well as the usual ballet rats and such. Erik tucked himself away in a corner, though, in a large comfortable chair beside the end table on which he kept the bottle of absinthe from which he repeatedly refilled the glass that never left his hand.

I planned to spend most of my evening with a skinny, overly-painted lady called Monique (or at least as long as it took to peel her dress off her bones) but I could not manage to concentrate. Repeatedly, I wandered back to check on Erik. As I stood beside him attempting to draw him into the party, something about the bones of Monique's hips drew me repeatedly to her side, but once I was there, I would inevitably notice something about the blank stare on Erik's face which repeatedly led me to abandon her to kneel at his side or perch on the ottoman at his feet and attempt to cheer him.

I even brought girls to him, but that evening Erik simply was not Erik, and after a few moments of a dull and uncomfortable silence, the girls moved on after assuring Erik, hollowly, that they were "absolutely enchanted" to have met him. His listlessness showed in his absolute lack of sarcastic responses as they moved away.

The vast majority of our scene-shifter friends and other opera-folk friends were so absorbed in their own drinking or their own conversations that no one noticed Erik glowering in the corner, and I remembered Joseph Buquet and the fact that no one but Erik had noticed his suffering. I felt again the rough texture of the rope in my hands as I hauled the dead man upward, and sidled away from Monique to edge back to Erik once again. One can never be _too _careful, after all.

"Whatever is the matter with him this evening?" My brother indicated Erik with a jerk of his head in the direction of Erik's corner shortly after I had left Erik's side yet again, having been unsuccessful in my attempt to make him laugh.

"I can't say for certain," I lied. "I suppose he had a difficult day. He's been like this since we left the Opera." It was only half a lie...

"Because Christine Daaé returned?"

"No, no--" I said suddenly. Then stopped. If I didn't know, how could I say for certain what it wasn't? Apparently my I had lost a bit of my talent for story-telling. "Perhaps," I amended. "One can never say with any certainty."

Darius nodded. "He's so unhappy," he said. I nodded. "So unlike him," he continued. I nodded again. "That's a shame."

I looked up, surprised, into my brother's worried features. Usually, I got the feeling Darius disliked Erik, was jealous of him, or annoyed by him, or perhaps all three. Now I wanted to throw my arms about him and clap him heavily upon the back with affection for this concern for my friend. As such a thing would seem dreadfully out of place, I smiled at him instead and made a mental note to thank him privately at a later time.

"He'll be fine. I'm sure. He's just... tired, I suppose."

"I hope you're right," my brother returned.

I grinned weakly and surrendered. In the absence of Erik's support, I felt helpless, and I turned to my brother. "Actually... it was..." I sighed. "Just a little nose mishap. But he's taking it badly. _All _the guys were there."

Darius's face was solemn. "Poor Erik," he said aloud. "How did the boys handle it?"

I shrugged. "They were shocked I think. But they're over it."

Darius nodded. When next I looked, he appeared to be attempting to engage Erik in serious conversation. When I looked again, both were gone.

I suppose it was our interaction the night of the party that moved Darius to buy the figurines for Erik, though I cannot say for certain. I can say that after Daaé left (which did not happen for two days, but I shall tell you about that in just a moment) Erik did not return from the Opera to the flat. I got worried and went after him. Darius must have left only a few moments behind me, for I had only just left the hexagonal entrance room to look for Erik when I heard him clattering about above and then falling into the room I had just left.

That room, I might add, had undergone some very strange changes.

Whether Erik was back to the process of re-silvering mirrors in a fashion so that they could be seen through I am merely speculating, but the room was filled with mirrors which leaned against the walls on all sides so that each mirror reflected five other mirrors. What was originally a very small six-sided foyer suddenly because a vast empire of room after room, each identical to the others, and each containing one man--myself--who was utterly baffled and quickly almost frantic. In an instant, I had no idea which wall panel was the one that led to the parlor. Still worse, I had no perception of where the wall ended and the mirage began. In desperation I was forced to simply walk forward until I ran head-long into a wall. When I did, I opened the panel into which I had run without concern for which room it was.

I found myself in the Louis-Philippe bedroom, and without the presence of mind to behave better, I left the wall panel open behind me. I spotted Erik in the parlor and started towards him. "What kind of--"

I had been about to say "--twisted device of torture is that?" when Erik cut me off with a sharp word. "Good Lord, Daroga!" Erik cried rushing in from the parlor. "What are you _thinking_? You enter without knocking? Suppose Mademoiselle Daaé had not yet left! This is her room, you know, _her room_! Supposed you had walked in on her at an inappropriate moment! Or suppose you had walked in while we--!"

I grinned at him. I laughed. He was almost himself once again. "Why, I would have arrested you at once."

That took him aback. "What?"

"Well, you were sentenced to death in my country, but when I let you escape, there were certain conditions--" I was interrupted by my brother clattering in through the torturous hexagonal foyer. I turned. "What are _you _doing here?"

He looked sheepish. "Visiting. Is there some law against visiting my brother?" He looked around me. "Greetings, Erik."

There was a long silence in which the three of us all looked at one another awkwardly. Then Darius moved forward and withdrew a small bundle from his pocket. "I brought you a gift," he said, looking at Erik.

"A gift?" Erik echoed. One would think he was surprised, and perhaps well he should be. It was entirely unexpected from Darius who usually avoided our parties when he could and usually was rather cross at Erik and his exuberance. "Why... thank you!" Erik was visibly stunned. Moreover, he looked _moved_.

I shifted out of the way and Darius moved forward, hands outstretched. "Two gifts, actually," Darius amended, fumbling in his other pocket for an additional bundle. "They go together." In each of my brother's outstretched hands was something small wrapped in brightly colored silk. "Go on," he said, reaching toward Erik. "I saw them and I thought of you. I hope you like them."

Erik took the first silk bundle and unwrapped it, hesitantly, as though a gift from Darius was the most foreign concept imaginable, which it was, in a way. I can't remember Darius ever offering Erik anything prior to this, nor after, though after, who can blame him?

The first was a carved statute of a scorpion, beautifully imitated in Japanese bronze. Erik muttered an astonished word of gratitude and admired the figurine appropriately holding it in cupped hands. He turned quickly, placed it upon the mantle and reached for the second bundle, which he similarly unwrapped and similarly admired.

"They go together," Darius said to break the silence. Then after a pause he added proudly "They're oriental. You might find a way to work them into stories of your travels." He smiled shyly. He did not approve of all our games, but here was his truce. He accepted us, whether he approved entirely or not. I was seized with the urge to embrace my brother tightly for the second time that week.

Meanwhile, "Oriental," Erik murmured petting with a single long bony finger the grasshopper figurine that rested upon his other hand. "I daresay we might have picked them up in Persia, yes?" He moved toward the mantle once again. "Or Egypt, perhaps. Have we been to Egypt yet, Daroga? What is their significance, I wonder, though?"

"Well," Darius began in a self-important tone, "_That _one is a fertility symbol, and the scorpion is--"

He was interrupted by the wild clattering of the grasshopper to the mantle as Erik released it--_threw _it, really--and let out a sharp cry as he shook his hand rapidly with disgust. After flinging his hand downward repeatedly, he instinctively wiped his palm on his trousers, then paused and stared at the place he had just touched with an expression of horror as he realized the proximity of the place he had touched to something _else_ related to fertility. He cried out once again and tore his trousers off with an absolute disregard for our presence. He kicked them aside with an extended toe and stood awkwardly with his hand held away from his body like a foreign and disgusting thing. He shook it once more then looked at me helplessly.

Darius was stone silent.

"What shall I do?" Erik whispered to me. "It's my _right hand_!"

"I don't know," I said numbly. I looked at Darius, who shrugged. I added, "I think you touched it with both hands."

Erik turned to regard his left hand with dismay. It was true. He shook his left hand and brushed the two of them as though fertility was a powder that could be dusted off. Then suddenly he stomped past us into the bathroom, turned on the tap, and thrust both hands beneath the running water. I leaned in the doorway and watched him. His expression revealed that the water did little to relieve his discomfort.

"Do you think water nullifies spiritual energy?" I wondered aloud.

"I have no idea," he said dully. "One can _hope_."

I felt Darius's presence behind me. "I'm sorry, Erik," he said sincerely. "I didn't realize-- Well, I thought you'd like it. It was foreign and exotic, you know? The other one is for sexual prowess," he said thickly. "That seemed like something you'd like to have. But the man who kept the shop said they went together, you know? I guess he just wanted to sell them both. But I thought..." He paused for a moment and sighed heavily. "I just thought... you'd... like it."

Erik wheezed loudly as though he was only _now_ able to draw breath again. "They do go together, in a way" in managed after a time. "And I _do_ like it, Darius," he continued without withdrawing his hands from the stream. "It is only--you should have _warned_ me. _Fertility, _Darius! It is nothing to fool with!"

I sighed heavily. "What were you _thinking_?" I asked my brother at last.

"What was I thinking?" he repeated. "I was thinking... I suppose I was thinking... of the two of you and how frequently you... enjoy..." He paused. "Oh," he said with sudden understanding. "I don't guess fertility is a good idea, then, is it?"

"_No,"_ I said emphatically. "It _isn't_. Whatever you do, don't buy _me_ one of those."

"I won't," my brother returned emphatically. "I _promise._"

"Good Lord, brother," I said softly. "I hope they're just nonsense."

Darius nodded solemnly.

Meanwhile, Erik had either given up on washing the fertility away or else decided he'd been successful. He dried his hands quickly, discarded the towel just in case and crossed the room, giving his tainted trousers a wide berth before going to his own room to find another pair. I, too, stepped around them; one cannot be too careful, after all.

Erik returned to the Louis-Philippe room a moment later and approached the mantle then withdrew his hand again. He stood there, halting and hesitant, trying to decide what to do. At last he turned to me. "I'd put it in a drawer..." he offered.

"But you don't want to pick it up."

"Exactly." He reached for the silk scarf, then withdrew his hand from that as well. "Who can tell?" he said, pointing to it. "Do you suppose it bleeds through silk?"

I certainly wasn't going to touch the scarf it had been wrapped in. I shrugged. Erik stomped to the kitchen and returned with a kitchen implement. Before he grasped the figurine with the device, however, he turned to me and said in a small worried voice "Do you suppose it transfers like heat? If so, even _this _is not safe."

I shrugged. He held the tongs out to me. I stepped away.

"That's what I thought," he said. "I suppose it will simply have to remain there." He sighed and put his hands upon his knees and bent to look closely at the figurine. "It is exquisite," he offered. "Pity about that, though. I suppose it's pleasant enough to look at. I don't particularly like it staring at the bed that--" he shuddered. "She'll be back again soon enough. It's not as though I can take her into my room," he said

I shrugged again. Perhaps Darius could be persuaded to take it away once again. After all, he'd carried it all the way from the shop without concern.

I said as much aloud.

"Are you kidding!" Darius cried out, horrified. "I carried that thing all day in my _pocket_!"

"And nothing happened," I said. "Just... pick it up and take it away for us. It's not as if anything will happen. After all you're not--" I fell silent. The shy grin on my brother's face gave him away entirely.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** Please do comment. I miss your encouragement!

Also, please consider reading a little something I wrote that isn't fanfiction and commenting on it. (It's at fictionpress, right here: http://wwwDOTfictionpressDOTcom/secure/story/story_?storyid=2715308) I'd especially like information on whether you understand what's going on in the story without having the background information on the real life version and/or whether not knowing about the particular cultures involved makes you less likely to want to finish it or more likely to read it out of curiousity. Reason being that it's a work that will likely get longer and may at some point get sent to a publisher. Thanks in advance. (And yeah... I know... supposedly FFN doesn't delete links to fiction press. Except it did this time the first time I put this link in. Gah!)


	41. Marriage

**Author's Note:** In lamenting my apparent huge loss of readership, I wonder _Did it get too long?_ _Did it stop being funny enough? Did everyone just get busy with the return to school?_ And subsequently I wonder _Should I cut parts out? Should I stop writing? Should I find a funny beta to help me? Should I just wait until next summer when everyone has more free time to post the ending? _Seriously... Help! It's not because I started posting only once a week instead of twice a week, is it?

**Humor Warning:** Some funny stuff. I don't think you need to be prepared to fall out of your chair or anything, but I still wouldn't eat too much.

**Disclaimer:** I do own Uncle Oris entirely.

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Daaé stayed only two days that time, and this time, as she had come of her own volition, her absence above was planned. Two days was all the managers could spare her—they needed her to sing Rachel in _La Juive_ because Carlotta could not overcome her mortification of the croak and refused to appear on stage.

At least, that was the official story.

But I have had a few singers in my bed from time to time as well, and for whatever reason, once a woman has gripped a man's back and screamed his name, she seems to acquire an uncanny desire to tell him the complete and total truth about absolutely everything from her deepest fears and darkest desires to the name of her first kitten and her favorite color. Either that, or it's simply _me_; perhaps I am naturally someone to whom women choose to tell things. Whatever the case, long before the official croak-mortification story came out, I had already been fully informed by no less than three young ladies of the chorus that Carlotta suffered due to a broken heart. I feigned surprise. _A broken heart! How so? From whom? _She vehemently believed that the skinny scene-shifter with whom she had apparently been having an affair was in love with Christine Daaé. Carlotta's friends had done their best to soil the girl's reputation both as a singer and an upright young lady, but it hadn't helped at all. For her part, Carlotta could neither eat nor sleep, let alone sing; she wept incessantly. By a few weeks later when Daaé took the stage as Rachel, I had heard this version from no less than a dozen different pairs of pink puckering lips between their uttering satisfied sighs as well.

Gossip about Daaé was rampant, which shouldn't have surprised me but did, for a month earlier she had been unheard of and two weeks prior she was said to be the most chaste creature ever to grace the streets of Paris. Now whispered behind hands was all sorts of inappropriate talk about the blushing diva. La Carlotta's influence, obviously. Or Erik's.

Of course, the fact that the night she triumphed as Rachel she grabbed the young Vicomte de Chagny by his lapels and literally _dragged_ him into her dressing room didn't help her reputation any. "It's a scandal!" the crowd outside her door said. I laughed. Of course. No, no singer had ever taken a man into her dressing room before!

Over the years, the Daaé story has been overblown to suggest that the young Vicomte and Erik were bitter jealous rivals, which was not _entirely_ true. It is, of course, a fact that we did cultivate Raoul's jealousy for our own devices, but for the most part it seemed to me that Erik's reaction when the boy began to show interest in the woman who had once been his childhood playmate, was predominantly one of relief, for Christine Daaé's visits quickly became too much for Erik's busy lifestyle, and her plans to rescue her dear Erik from his loneliness and solitude could have destroyed our way of life forever.

Once the challenge of two weeks was ended, Erik attempted to resume his usual lifestyle immediately. He made up for lost time. He was busier that week than ever before. He gave Carlotta such pleasure that Sorelli and I heard her all the way in the dancer's lounge which is not at all near Carlotta's dressing room. I suspect Erik found the lady-in-green and the lady-in-red shortly thereafter. I unwittingly was witness two about three and half seconds of Madam Giry with what she believed was the ghost of her dead husband who told her that a ghost could either be tangible our audible, but never both at once. "But if you promised not to look, my wife, perhaps I might muster the strength to touch you once more..." I hurried away; I cannot bear to think of the elderly mother of my once-flame in such a state. But as I say... Erik was busy. Between women and work, I don't believe he slept. Then Christine Daaé returned, absolutely certain that more than anything poor unhappy Erik" had absolutely nothing to do and yearned for constant companionship.

"Don't worry, Erik," I suggested confidently. "The Vicomte de Chagny will take her off your hands," I said. I had been hearing murmurs around the Opera that the young man was desperately in love with the girl and earnestly seeking a way to avoid his upcoming naval expedition. Meanwhile, Erik nodded at me slightly, then suddenly looked stricken. "What?" I asked.

"I am a fool, Daroga," he said after a long silence. "I am a stupid fool. A stupid _arrogant_ fool." I waited, and in a moment, he told me of how he had spoken jealously from behind the wall to Christine causing her to dismiss the boy, and when she had done so , how he had questioned her and accused her of being dishonest about her feelings for the boy.

I admit, I was confused. "But _why_?" was all I could say.

Erik shrugged and looked confused himself. "I didn't think it through, Daroga! All I was thinking at that moment was how sweet and innocent she was, how different she was from the ladies we usually enjoy, what it might be like to know her, whether she would be as sweet an innocent once I put my hands upon her, and what such a naive girl would be like in the bed. But how could I manage it just then? Simply walk up and introduce myself? 'Good day, Mademoiselle, I am Erik, formerly known as the Voice-within-your-dressing-room-wall and the Angel-of-Music. I am so very pleased to make your acquaintance. Might you grant me the courtesy of allowing me to escort you to your bed?'"

I grinned. What, I wonder, would sweet little Daaé have said to _that_?

"The Angel should have simply gone away," he continued morosely. "The boy could have comforted her in its absence. In the meantime, I could have courted her as anyone else. I daresay Uncle Oris stood a fair chance with her."

"Uncle Oris?"

"On the Perros train. He bought a violin for his nephew." I nodded my remembrance. "I _seriously_ considered it at the time. She was right there and ripe for the taking." His eyes went vacant, starting off as he remembered. "But then I could not have played the violin for her, for I had warned her as the Angel that she would hear me that night only if she was still pure."

"Of course."

"Suffice to say I was not thinking and I thought only that I did not want to fool with a meddling de Chagny."

I nodded. I understood that entirely. After all, I had the elder brother to contend with in competition for La Sorelli on a regular basis. "All the same," I said. "Raoul de Chagny is not gone entirely, apparently. She spent all that time with him at the masked ball and you were _right there._"

"She sent him away after that," he intoned leadenly. "She told him she would never see him again."

"And yet she did, not the next day, but the day after that. They've been seen together all over the Opera most every day since then you know."

He nodded again. "I know. I know." Of course he did. Erik did not operate as some independent ghost who had to obtain all his own information. Surely a trapdoor closer, a door closer, a sceneshifter, an orchestra member--someone would have seen them together. It took only Erik's asking. Sometimes not even that. "But even after that she still returned. She _returned to Erik!_ And she wishes to return _often_." He looked away, then glanced back at me. He opened his mouth, closed it, and looked away again. "I need your help," he whispered at last.

His seriousness caused me to drop my voice to a whisper as well, though surely no one could hear us here in the fifth cellar. "You know you have it, Erik," I said. "What is the problem"

He sighed. He shuddered. He closed his eys and pressed his fingertips against his lids. "Daroga," he said softly, with horror, "Christine Daaé is speaking of marriage."

**

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Shameless Begging:** These past few chapters have not been uproariously funny, but don't worry, I'm not ENTIRELY out of humorous situations just yet. I am, however, a bit under the weather, as well as over busy at work, so I doubt I can post again until at least next Sunday.


	42. But what was the question?

**Author's Note:** I apologize for my long absence. I know that two weeks is not long for most FFN stories to go without an update, but I know that I also committed to once a week, and have faithfully delivered chapters to you TWICE a week. Suffice to say with all the children, plus back to school, plus flu season, plus the Jewish New Year, I simply got overwhelmed. Unfortunately, this situation has also impacted the Erik plush. I am desperately trying to get off my behind and get a new copy of the old software so I can make Erik's glossy tag, but it is so difficult with my work schedule. Nevertheless, I promise to try again tomorrow. I DO so wish to have them for all those of you who wanted them by Christmas.

**Disclaimer:** Now is hardly the time of year to be strutting about bragging about what I own, so I'll go with I own nothing for the moment.

**Humor Warning:** In my being completely overwhelmed with life, I have completely lost touch with my sense of humor and therefore cannot tell if my writing is funny or not. Therefore, don't eat or drink while reading, and someone please report to me right away whether this was amusing or not. Thanks.

* * *

"Marriage?" I shuddered. The very thing I had dreaded all along!

Erik got to his feet and began to pace nervously.

"Rather inappropriate, isn't it? Isn't she supposed to wait for _you _to ask?"

He glared at me as he paced by. "Erik would never ask!" he hissed.

I bowed grandly. "Precisely!"

"No, no," he grumbled. "No, obviously I would never ask, but Erik--Erik, the--" he fell to his knees and put on his dejected expression, completely with clasped hands "poor monster Erik--would never ask." He groaned and put his hand upon his back as he got to his feet again, and it occurred to me that neither of us was as young as we used to be.

I cocked an eyebrow at him. "Back pain?" I questioned with a wince.

He shook his head tiredly. "Christine Daae," he sighed. "Wears me out. Honestly, Daroga, you have no idea. Innocent maidens..." he paused rubbing a protruding spine "never a good idea." He paused and looked confused. "What was I saying?"

"Innocent maidens," I repeated back thoughtfully. "Oh! No, poor Erik. Poor Erik would never ask."

"Right." He put his hand to his brow. He looked a decade older than we were. "Erik would never ask, you know, because he's so downtrodden... and depressed... and disconsolate." With each word, Erik slumped further so that he stood before me like the famed hunchback of the Hugo novel.

"So... then, _what happened_?"

Another sigh. "I suppose she _offered_ more than _asked_."

I tapped my foot impatiently.

"You would have to have _been_ there, Daroga. It was very honest and sweet, however unsettling." His expression changed and for an instant I believed he might actually want to marry her! "It is a piece out of the finest romance ever written, perhaps," he mused. "She sought only to please poor unhappy Erik."

I snorted. "And where did this lovely romantic interlude take place, do I dare ask? In your music room beside the coffin she couldn't bear to look at a month ago? Oh, wait! Perhaps beside the piano where she tore of your mask and then screamed like a banshee? No? How about in the--"

"In the bed, Daroga, where else. In the _bed_."

I sighed with relief. "Oh, Erik, everyone knows promises made in bed don't mean anything! How many girls have you promised to marry in the morning?"

Erik turned to me, truly horrified. "None!" he thundered. "I do not LIE to them!" He paused, then looked a bit sheepish. "All right, now, that's not true. I apologize. I suppose I do lie to them. But not that way. I would never mislead a lady in that fashion--" he cut himself off as perhaps he realized his argument made no sense. "Suffice to say, I have never promised such a thing."

"Until now."

"Not even now. I didn't give her an answer."

"You didn't give her answer? How did you manage not to answer her?"

"By slamming my forehead against the floor."

Before I could express my utter confusion, Erik broke and gave in.

"We lay in each other's arms that morning, our legs entwined, my head upon her shoulder, one of her hands stroking my hair while the other patted my shoulder reassuringly. I drifting to sleep, then, so tired I was after that night--for all night we did not sleep but explored and played and dreamed and dared!--We had not slept, for between passion and more passion she insisted we talk, and always with her passion leads to compassion, which rapidly leads back to more passion. I tell you, that morning I was sore in parts I did not know I possessed!

"So, I was exhausted and as I closed my eyes, drifting toward sleep, she kissed me upon the forehead and wished me pleasant dreams. Such sweet things always says Christine Daae to her Erik. Then she sighed heavily, called me "poor, unhappy love" and mused aloud if ever there was anything she could do to make me happy. I foolishly murmured that I was happy, very, _very _happy, that she had made me the happiest man on earth.n Oh, if only I had kept my damned mouth shut! If only I had fallen asleep faster! But no.

"She lay very still for a moment then. I could feel her holding her breath. Then she lifted herself suddenly and turned toward me. When I opened my eyes hers were wide. 'Then I shall stay, Erik. I shall stay with you. Forever.' When started to say that it wasn't possible she blurted out that she would be my wife if I wished it and that she would marry me whenever I wished at the Church of the Madelaine.

"My heart panicked and I am sure all the blood drained from my face, for suddenly her sweet look vanished and she said, 'Erik, why do you look so disturbed? Is it not what you have always wanted?'

"I rolled out of the bed, then, with the thought that I needed to get away from her until I could put on an appropriate expression, but I became terribly tangled the sheets and fell gracelessly to the floor landing on my face. The pain distracted me enough for the moment, and of course, it distracted her as well with her worrying and eventually I crawled off the to bathroom cradling my face in my hands and leaving her behind to debate whether to go after me or untangle the sheets and make the bed to avoid its happening again. By the time she made up her mind and pursued me, I had the door locked, so she threw herself into hysterics that I was going to do something terrible to myself behind the locked door.

"What I could possibly do alone in the bathroom was beyond my comprehension, but the conversation was so entertaining I indulged in it for many moments hoping that perhaps she would decide that I was so demented as to be too dangerous for her to remain with me, but to no avail. The more disturbed I acted, the more she insisted she could make it all right, so in the end I pulled myself together and emerged from the bathroom as though nothing at all were wrong and never had been. I conducted myself normally the remainder of the day and even ventured to look a bit perplexed when she talked about Erik's insecurities as regards his face. I told her perhaps I liked living underground because it was quiet.

"At length I decided that you were right, that I should have told her the truth, so told her just a bit of it at first. I asked her to consider the possibility that perhaps I was not at all what I seemed to be to her, that perhaps I was not nearly as lonely as she perceived, that perhaps I was even a Don Juan of sorts. At this she cried piteously and clutched me and assured me that when she was my wife I would no longer need outlandish fantasies to console myself.

"I told her that I had had many women before her. She responded that she would spend her life making up for all the women who had refused me!

"I told her she did me wrong to assume that my face had anything at all to do with my social affairs, and she clutched me aggressively, kissed me passionately and assured me that henceforth my face was entirely irrelevant.

"She told me I didn't need to pretend for her sake.

"Helpless to convince her of the truth, I said I was exhausted and I lay down and pretended to go to sleep. She tried her tears and quickly departed.

"It seemed a relief, rather, until she returned and told me that she had met with the priest of the Madelaine and explained our special circumstances and that the wedding could be arranged within the week."

Here Erik paused in his recitation.

"Within the week!" I managed to echo. "You're doomed!"

"Oh, it is worse than you think, Daroga! It is to be a dual ceremony before both the priest of the Madelaine _and _the mayor! Oh, Daroga!" He got to his feet and paced once again. "Whatever shall I do?"

"Well, we could perhaps run away," I suggested.

He nodded. "We could. We could at that." But he looked quite disturbed. "I will miss Paris so!" he said. "And this place." He waved to indicate the cellars. "And working here." He pointed upward. Then he grinned. "And the extra money the haunting brings was so very pleasant, was it not? And where shall we go? I cannot live too far from Mother, you know. She worries incessantly if I do not visit."

I sighed. "Yes, I know." Erik's mother still doted on him a bit, was still a bit clingy and overprotective, and by a bit, I mean obsessively and excessively so. In spite of all else, Erik somehow managed to go home for Sunday supper every week. Mother apparently believed Erik to be a good boy and knew nothing at all of our exploits, for on the occasions on which I had been invited to attend, she had always asked me when I was to be married, and whenever Erik would leave the room for a moment, she would question me urgently about whether Erik had any serious prospects. It was a trick question, of course. In truth, Erik had many prospects, but none about whom he was at all serious. I would answer honestly but carefully that no, nothing serious. It did no good to add that Erik had talked to this young lady or that, or that he had a pleasant enough social life, for Erik's poor mother would reach her own frustrating conclusions: "Oh, so they are content to enjoy an evening meal or an opera, but not to spend their life with my dear son?" And she would snort with disgust: "Their mothers ought to be ashamed of them."

I would attempt to assure her, then, that no, it was nothing at all like that, certainly not, and that it was Erik who was exceptionally choosy, I thought, and that someday, when he met the right girl-- and usually it was about this time that Erik would saunter back into the room to ask what stunning gems of conversation he had missed in his absence, and his mother or I would make up some nonsense and the subject would be dropped until the his next unfortunate absence.

I fully made up my mind to tell her the truth many times. I planned it most exquisitely. "Madame," I would say to her, when I had a moment with Erik absent, or perhaps I would visit her without Erik sometime... "Madame, I wish to reassure you with regard to Erik's prospects. It so happens, Madame, that there are a great number of young women who are very much interested in Erik and would most certainly have him should he ask for the hand of any of them in marriage. But Erik and I"--I would include myself so that I did not seem to sully his name--"Erik and I so very much enjoy our current lifestyle, you see, that neither of us is able to imagine himself--or the other, for the matter--married to any one young lady. Please," I would say to her then, "Do not worry for Erik, for I assure you that he enjoys every moment of his life more than any other man I know, myself included, though he ensures that I do follow closely behind him. Not every man wishes to be married, you know. I want to assure you, though, your Erik gets everything he wishes for."

I never managed it, though, quite honestly because I wasn't sure she would believe me and if she did, I thought perhaps she might get more upset at the thought of how exactly Erik might be enjoying unmarried life. I certainly wasn't going to spell _that _out to the lady.

At any rate, a move would be a difficult thing, for where could Erik live and maintain such a lifestyle and still be able to get home to visit often enough? Even Perros was too far, and there were not jobs or women to be had in that tiny town.

"I don't suppose you can just explain to Christine Daae that you do not wish to be married?"

Erik chewed his lip in frustration. "Tell her poor lonely Erik doesn't want to marry? Would she even believe it?"

I shrugged. "It's the truth, isn't it?"

"Why, but it's such nonsense! Erik is such a fragile, lonely creature to her! Of course Erik yearns to be married!"

At that moment, he was truly the most unhappy and sublime of men.

"How did it happen," I asked at last. "How did you get yourself into this terrible mess?"

He glared at me. "You ought to know," he said somewhat bitterly. "You picked her out of that crowd of chorus girls that afternoon, didn't you?"

I rolled my eyes. "I know how it started, Erik. But what did you do to her? What did you do to attach yourself to her like this?"

"What did I _do_ to her?" Erik stared at me in wide-eyed wonder. "What do you _think _I did to her? The same thing I always do! I _loved_ her Daroga. Passionately. Thoroughly. Completely. Repeatedly. I gave her myself as a gift. I thrilled her. I showered her—"

"Yes, right, I understand. All very nice and flower-ly put, Erik, but you've done that hundreds of times and nothing like this comes of it. What _really_ happened that night?"

He glanced away and looked embarrassed.

"What?"

"I am thinking of the proper words, Daroga!"

"Indeed." I waited a moment, then a moment more. "Let me know when you find them."

"Oh, you impatient pest! Be silent a moment and I'll tell you."

I was silent for a long time as Erik fidgeted in his chair in a very un-Erik-like fashion, then at last he put the palms of his hands together, closed his eyes and shuddered slightly.

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**Shameless Begging:** Please leave a review. What did you like best about this chapter? Was it funny?


	43. Crescendo

**Author's Note**: I am excited to announce that the Erik Plush project nears completion. The final final final version is complete and available for viewing both at me DA account (http:SLASHSLASHbldnghrtcnsrvtvDOTdeviantartDOTcom) and at Erik Plush's own website (wwwDOTsixpointDOTusSLASHerikindexDOThtml). EVERYTHING is done now (his hair, the embroidery on his face, his black mask!) except his glossy hang tag, which I expect to work on Tuesday-Friday of this week and post next Sunday. For those of you interested in BUYING an Erik Plush, I am in the last stages of arguing about billing, so we're almost there. It takes 30 days to make 300 Eriks and another week or so to ship them to me, so I hope to have them by the middle of November and deliver them to you by the end of November so you can give them as gifts for the winter holiday of your choice. There will be 248 available (2 being reserved automatically for myself and the wonderful artist who did the drawings to make this possible). The PayPal link is up and running on the website for preorders at this time, but delivery will STILL be November. In the meantime, you're really here to hear about what Erik did to poor sweet innocent Daaé that night, aren't you? Well, okay, if you must have it, then, here's the first bit.

**Humor Notice**: This chapter doesn't contain a whole lot of funny stuff. I hope the sexual tension makes up for it. :snark:

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Erik, but sometimes when he's feeling frisky, he lets me pretend I do....

* * *

Oh, Daroga, what a delight! What a delight she was! I cannot tell you... there are not words enough to tell you, how sweet, how _gentle_ she was with me. You remember of course, what she thought--that no woman had ever touched me, ever, in any way, by the hand, even, Daroga. Sweet Christine! She was so careful with me!

I came to her in her dressing room that night. The night of the bal masque. That night was the most difficult... most painful... most _frustrating_ night of my life. I had been—well, I don't have to tell you! You know! You were there. _You were there!_ Ah, but you were only_ there_. You could only see... you did not _feel_... and even what you saw, you did not see _all_. That night from start to finish was nothing but temptation, nothing but excitement and enticement wrapped up in persuasion, a mad attraction to everyone and everything, a sudden heightening of the senses so that the lightest of touches was powerful, the simple breath of a woman, divine, even a glimpse of a shoe buckle as an unknown woman three tables away uncrossed and recrossed her ankles... Oh, Daroga, how can I tell you?

But you know of it. You know what I had done to myself those two weeks that Christine remained with me. There was one night—that first night, I could not bear it, and you recall I sent you away. But the other nights, I swear to you, I simply suffered it unendingly without release. How can I convey to you the torture, the utter torment of that evening? Never again. _Never_ again will I attempt something that sort. I cannot say what is worse, Daroga, the agony of anticipation or the abject horror of the impending loss of control.... Combined, they were distress beyond compare.

They say that restraint breeds still _more_ restraint, that every day it is a day easier, but they _lie_. I tell you now that every day was a day worse, like water building behind a dam, threatening, when the dam breaks, to destroy all that lies beyond. Pressure beyond your wildest imagination, force beyond description. I tell you now that after a time I continued to restrain myself no longer because I wished to but only out of terror at what might happen if I did not.

I could not sleep at night but my dreams were full of desire. I could not concentrate in the days. A simple game of checkers was a challenge to my starved brain, a card trick an impossibility due to hands that trembled like giddy ballerinas on opening night. It was in this starved condition in which I found myself the night of the bal masque, a night in which, under any other circumstances, I would have feasted to no end.

The forces of the universe conspired that night against me as every woman I have ever found beautiful in the world paraded before me in glory and offered herself to me for the taking, and I had to tell them all no, no, no, _no,_ Daroga!

And _that_ is how she found me when I found her. You recall I went after her, up the stairs, yes? She led _him_ into one of the private boxes to have a private conversation, but we have our trapdoors and our hollow bricks and we always hear what we need to hear, do we not? As it was, I heard her easily from the box beside. I played the game all right. I went up the steps as though I thought she had continued up, and I went down the steps again and passed by the door, and all the while _they_ are inside. He is telling her that he has recognized me as her friend and that he will tear off my mask (imagine his surprise had I given him the chance to try! ..but in my condition I could scarcely dream up such a scheme as that!) and she declares that she loves him.

This served to nicely frustrate me all the further, for I had waited a fortnight, and I would have _someone_ that night or I would something within me would surely burst. In that instant, when I thought she would leave with him, I was frantic. I had already sent away every other prospect who approached me. I swear to you, Daroga, I was on the verge of tears—real tears that I could not fight. But an instant later I realized she was only playing one of her games, toying with his mind, preventing him from going after me. She thougth she was protecting me, my Daroga! Can you imagine...? Surely she considered me someone very fragile whom her childhood friend could destroy easily. I laugh now... Perhaps that night I was as brittle as she supposed.

But the poor boy seemed to truly love her. He raged, and he cried, and I thought 'for certain I shall go back and find Chantal or Sonia or Lizette. I said to myself, "This boy has such a desperate love for this girl, and I can certainly find another.' I would have to hurry, yes, and hope they were not offended by my behavior earlier... And while I leaned against the wall in agony, my trousers scarcely containing me as I sought to determine after whom to chase and whether it was too late, she suddenly sent him away!

Yes! She told him she was going away forever and she would never see him again. She said nothing of me, nor anything at all, but the boy began to cry quite suddenly that he was sorry, so sorry, please forgive him and such but she went from him immediately to her dressing room in a very distraught state.

I followed immediately upon her heels, but I could not go to her just then, trembling as I was, literally shuddering in my boots, quivering all over with desire, my eyes wet and my mouth dry and a feeling like sawdust in my throat. I left her then for several drinks, but time passed and I knew she waited for me, that I could not avoid her. My time was up as you pointed out when I bade you good evening, and I should have done as you suggested, but I knew that Christine Daae would be waiting for poor Erik to whom she had made a promise to wait. I returned to the place by her dressing room I had gone before to sing with her.

As I went to the dressing room, it was easy to convince myself I was who she believed I was, and I wondered if a lifetime of the suffering I had put myself through over the course of a fortnight, would it have been easier for in such a case I would have had no idea what I was missing. With these thoughts in my head, I crept to her mirror.

I had replaced the mirror, as you know, with a mirror like we have in the dancers' dressing area. I went to the mirror then, for if a lamp burned inside, I would be able to see her before she saw me. Of course, she was there.

She was sitting at her little dresser with her head in her hands as though she were distraught, and at once I thought she was distraught over the loss of the boy. I burned with desire—for her, for anyone, for _relief_—but in a far away corner of my mind I vowed to find him and bring him to her. I was on the verge of throwing the whole mess out and going to Marie-Élise, whom I knew would be home for she is not ever at the Opera unless I bring her, when suddenly Christine spoke aloud. Do you know what she said, Daroga? Do you know what she said? I shall tell you what she said. She said "Poor Erik!" in a tone of sympathy and such tenderness that my heart suddenly beat strangely fast against the inside of my chest while my ears rang and my loins throbbed. "Poor Erik," she said again. And _I_ was Erik. Not Erik, myself, but the Erik I had created:, poor, _suffering_ Erik who had known no affection in his sad, long life. I had to press my hands to my chest to hold my heart from bursting through.

She sat up then and began to write, slowly, deliberately, as though she had all the time in the world on which to muse upon and write upon poor unhappy Erik. Page upon page she wrote. To whom? To _Erik_? _About_ Erik? My heart thudded with such force against my breastbone that I was sure she could hear the percussive tone and with each beat my desire grew inside me stronger and stronger ready to burst forth from within if it had to rip this body to shreds to do so. When I could contain it no longer, I dared to open my mouth, and I sang to her as I have never sung before. She pressed the pages to her bosom and stood then and looked about the room as though I had entered it. Oh, the dear innocent girl! She lifted up her arms and held them out toward me, for she knew I was on the other side of the mirror. And with a fire consuming me from within I pushed the counterbalance, embraced her, and swept her away.

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**Shameless Begging:** I apologize for my long absence. Did you miss me? If so, a review is the perfect way to let your feelings show...!


	44. AUTHOR'S NOTE REGARDING PT 44

**A little treat for those of you who have been long awaiting the "M" portions. Chapter 44, "Perdendo" is now posted under Excerpts from _The Real Don Juan Triumphant_" for your reading pleasure. I labeled it M because it went further than my usual stuff, but it's not really M M like some of the other stuff I read on FFN. I guess I'll just never be an M author. I just haven't the knack for it. That being said, I do hope that those who enjoy a good M level story are not disappointed. "Perdendo" is the first of (at least) two chapters told by Erik that will be posted separately because they go further than I think T should go. Enjoy.**

**Read "Excerpts from The Real Don Juan Triumphant" here: **.?v=1212601907690.

**Or, if you are not old enough to read "M" content, hand in there for the next regular chapter. Don't worry. You're not missing anything that changes the plot, and certainly not anything that happened in Leroux.  
**


	45. AUTHOR'S NOTE REGARDING PT 45

Note regarding chapter 45: Chapter 45 is also posted under M Excerpts of The Real Don Juan Triumphant. That's it for the M stuff for a while. Please continue here to the end of the story. Thanks!


	46. Head games

**Author's Note:** For those of you not reading the "M" excerpts, all you missed is that Erik and Christine went back to his place and did something entirely scandalous especially considering that they are not married and it is the Victorian era. That having been said, it was not Erik's usual encounter found in the average POTO fanfic. Young Christine, once over her initial fear, entire wore out dear old Erik. Erik admits he's met his match and then some. Worse yet, either Christine is bent on marrying Erik or else she's using him to make Raoul jealous in order to persuade Raoul to marry her. Erik hopes for the latter. I guess that's the long and short of it. For those of you deciding whether to read the M excerpts or not, they aren't THAT M, just a little M. They certainly aren't the level of M that some other folks here post. I would say, however, that for those of you who are 12 and 13, I wouldn't want my 12 and 13 year olds reading them, but I'm also a very over-protective and religious type. Whatever the case, here's the next non-M installment. And again, I apologize for my long absence. I believe it's been two weeks instead of the customary one week I usually do. I'll try to post more often if I can manage it.

**Humor Warning:** Some funny stuff in here. Not exactly fall-out-of-your-chair-and-laugh-your-ass-off funny stuff, but funny enough that I hope you'll laugh, so... you know... try not to drink unless you like having your beverage come out your nose.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own POTO, but if I did, I'd be taking advantage of Erik regularly. Oh wait. I'm doing that anyway, aren't I?

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I sat back and exhaled the breath I didn't realize I had been holding as Erik concluded his recitation. "Well, it seems as though you had yourself quite a time."

"Indeed." He appeared exhausted by the telling.

"Wore you out, did she?"

"Entirely."

"You're getting old, Erik," I snickered.

"Oh, you think you're in better shape, eh?"

I shrugged. "It's not as though I'll have the chance to put myself to the test," I said as casually as I could manage. I admit that I did crave the chance to try my endurance against such an arduous woman, to pit myself against Erik in his area of expertise, to see if I could indeed come out on top. My mind leaped to run through a series of scenarios I might use to woo the girl myself.

Meanwhile, Erik grinned. "But you'd like the chance," he read my mind.

I shrugged again. "Not exactly the most realistic idea. Sounds like Christine is rather committed to poor Erik."

He nodded miserably. "Unfortunately, yes." Then a shy smile crept onto his face. "Perhaps two men such as us, together, might be able to keep the girl satisfied."

I made a face. "Erik, that's unthinkable."

He looked hurt. "Erik is capable of sharing," he said softly. "Erik is not so jealous as that!"

I rolled my eyes. "The _girl_, Erik. What lady do you know that would agree to such an arrangement?"

He sighed sadly. "A pity," he said. "And yet, until this day I never would have thought it necessary. Always I thought the other way around until now."

"So she's something special then, eh?"

He smiled. "Of course she is," he said absent-mindedly.

I twisted my hands jealously in my lap. A single woman capable of satisfying Erik! Not only satisfying him, but _wearing him out_. If it were possible for a single woman to satisfy him, he might just choose to settle down, and Erik did that, I'd be alone in my escapades. Yes, certainly it meant less competition, but it also promised also to be far less fun.

"More special than all the others?" I managed to suggest.

Erik frowned suddenly. "What a terrible thing to say," he replied. "Why should the others be any less special?" Here he sighed heavily. "It is a problem, Daroga. I shant have the strength left for the others. Already I am hearing of Carlotta's distress."

"Yes, yes it is certainly a problem, Erik." I was rapidly putting together a plan to woo Daae myself. After all, I had seen her first and I could not forget the excitement that rushed through my loins on that first observation of her. Obviously, she was quite enamored with Erik and considering the stories he'd told her, sympathy would have to play into my story as well. I sifted through old stories my other had told me of the Persian Shah-in-Shah, of his many wives, of the many wars he waged and the many violent atrocities committed in his court. I dredged up Erik's old yarn in which my father was the chief of police, a position which I was to inherit. I spared Erik's life. Yes. If Daae's feelings for Erik were as he described, she would show great favor to the man who had saved his life. But I needed to be tragic as well, and so I determined that for having spared the life of Erik I had been forever banished from the country I so loved. I grinned to myself reflecting on the many unusual acts I had been able to request from ladies who wished to assuage my hunger for my lost homeland. "We'll have to find a way to get Daae off your hands." And into mine. Oh yes.

"I've been thinking the de Chagny boy might be of assistance," Erik suggested.

"The Vicomte? Bah!" Raoul de Chagny was thin and pale and excessively innocent. "Don't give me any of that 'he's a sailor' nonsense," I told Erik. "Trip around the world or not, that boy's as innocent as if he'd just left his mother's breast."

He nodded. "Do not forget, though, that is what I thought about the girl."

I nodded along with him. "You're right, you're right. We have both been too quick to judge."

"We must come up with something soon. I cannot bear it longer. It is not only La Daae, but you must consider the time spent underground. Two weeks was two weeks, but I scarcely returned to the world when suddenly she was back. I cannot live indefinitely underground. Can you imagine? Have you the slightest idea? I have yet to fully recover!"

"Indeed. You're a little pale."

"I am worse than pale," he said with an eye roll.

"Perhaps it would be easier to simply tell her the truth. Admit it was a prank, tell her the truth and send her off with the Vicomte."

Erik turned paler still, if such a thing were possible. "Tell her the truth?" he gasped. "Then I would be _sure_ to have to marry her!"

"She would be so angry with you as not to _want _to marry you."

"Ah, but if she were angry and scorned, she would surely tell of the house on the lake, even if only to her husband. It would be the end of it all."

I nodded. The Vicomte would be sure to lead some sort of brigade into the cellars, and there would be no more private hideaway and certainly no more Opera ghost.

"So what's your plan?"

"I haven't had the energy to think it through entirely just yet. All I can say is that I believe the young Vicomte was not deterred by Christine's dismissal of him at the masquerade.

"Indeed," I agreed. "She was seen with him again two days later."

Erik nodded enthusiastically. "He went to her house the morning after, apparently. So she told a few chorus girls. Honestly, I do believe she intended to try to forget Erik as he begged her to, but then Carlotta refused to sing and they threw her Rachel of _La Juive_ for which she was entirely unprepared. She needed my help and of course being there led to her need of other types of attention as well."

"Fantastic," I said dryly.

"Indeed. I hadn't even considered the consequences of not taking appropriate care of Carlotta. I really should have appeared to console her after her humiliation the night of the croak, but as you recall I was playing doctor with the concierge."

"Indeed." I sighed. "You really have gotten in over your head, Erik. It might be time to consider going on holiday."

"And certainly we must, as soon as we resolve this mess. Meanwhile, I believe I am a pawn in some manipulative game."

I regarded my friend across the room carefully. He was not at all disturbed to be a pawn. Indeed, he appeared tiredly amused. I reminded myself not to get angry with him. After all, look how wrong I had been when I thought he had ended the life of Firmin Richard's concierge! "What type of game?"

"I am not certain Christine's suggestion of marriage is honest."

"No?"

"It seems that perhaps she merely she wishes to make the Vicomte de Chagny jealous. At least, I hope that is her motivation."

"Ah."

"Though, granted, marriage is most definitely her goal; it is not entirely clear which of us she prefers--or if she has a preference at all."

I had to give the girl some credit. It is not often an Opera singer gets a chance at a Vicomte. Ah, but that thought was naive, for did not Sorelli, a dancer, have quite a time with the elder brother of that same noble family? Then again, that arrangement did not seem to promise marriage. Alternately, it is not often any woman gets a chance at a lover of Erik's caliber. It seemed that regardless how it turned out, Daae stood to win on one hand and lose on the other. As I stood to lose only if the lady married Erik, it was instantly clear which outcome I was to work for. In the meantime, I would need to decide if one night with Daae was worth the effort it would take and the risk I would run.

I decided the Daroga of Mazanderan would most definitely pay Daae a visit to inquire as to whether she had befriended the escaped Erik, but before I could do so, I needed to know more about her true feelings for both him and young Raoul. I could easily trail her through the Opera if necessary. I fell to fantasizing while Erik continued to explain the situation regarding the triangle that Christine had set up with him and young Raoul as her counterpoints.

Erik was still babbling about his plan and the possible flaws that night as we rode back to the flat on Rue de Rivoli, but by that time I was asking myself whether it bothered me that Sorelli had a relationship with Comte Philippe, and why did I feel so hypocritically jealous at that moment. Perhaps I should have listened more carefully to Erik's thoughts on jealousy or to his plan in general and perhaps the entire Opera tragedy could have been avoided.

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**Shameless Begging:** Okay folks... it's been two weeks, and on this end, it's been a ROUGH two weeks (hence the long wait between updates) so any and all encouragement is appreciated and encouraged. Please leave me a review. I'd love to hear what you thought of this chapter. Oh! And I've been meaning to say this for a long time.... I talked to a reader who told me that she never reviews because she feels like she doesn't have anything original or creative or especially constructive to say. I never realized there were people out there feeling that way. I just sort of assumed that if folks didn't review, they weren't particularly impressed. I can't speak for every writer on here, but I can say that I speak for a large number (because they've told me they feel this way too) when I say that ANYTHING AT ALL makes us feel really, really good. Even if it's just "Good job!" or "I read your chapter and liked it" or something like that. Even an emoticon would do.


	47. What happens after a kiss

**Author's Note:** Nothing especially special to note this installment, so please just enjoy

**Disclaimer:** POTO owns me, not the other way around.

**Humor Warning:** Please continue to exercise caution as regards eating and laughing at the same time.

* * *

We followed Christine Daae and Raoul de Chagny through the Opera as they played their childish game, hoping to confirm Erik's suspicion that Christine was pretending to be engaged to _him_ to make Raoul jealous enough to propose marriage himself instead.

It wasn't much of a plan. To be honest, it wasn't really a plan at all. More of a prelude to a plan. The information-gathering stages of the creation of a plan. Rather like doing research before one begins to embark on an experiment. It was, however, dreadfully amusing. I could go on telling you about it for days, for we trailed them for days, but let me not try your patience. I shall focus on the parts that led to further chaos.

I suppose the first the couple began to suspect that we might be following them--or rather, that someone (most likely Erik, I am sure the couple thought) was following them.

They were standing on the stage, actually, during the mid-afternoon. The vast majority of everyone was out to lunch, but Erik and I were nearby, the tops of our heads against a trap door, which we had pushed open just the slightest. Raoul stood not far away gazing down into the adjacent trapdoor.

"You've had me visit the heights of your empire, Christine," he said, "but they tell strange stories about what is down below. Would you like us to go down there?"

The Vicomte folded at the waist, bent his knees and put his hands upon them to peer more closely into the darkness.

"Oh, ho, we shall have some fun, now!" Erik chuckled in my ear.

"Surely. Are you prepared to fight the boy if it comes to that?"

"Certainly, if he does not faint again."

But Christine clutched desperately at the boy and tried to pry him from the place where he stood. "Never!" she told him in response to his question. "I _forbid_ you to go there. Besides, it doesn't belong to me. _Everything under the earth belongs to him!_"

Erik raise his eyebrows and elongated his cheeks. "To me?" he asked of me, a hand modestly upon his chest. "All of it? Oh dear..."

"So he lives down there?"

Erik chuckled again. "Dear, dear, dear... Shall she betray dear old Erik? Shall she lie to her childhood friend? Oh dear, whatever shall we do?"

Christine's ivory skin turned paler. "I didn't say that! Where did you get such an idea?"

"Indeed," Erik said confidentially in my ear. "Christine is fiercely loyal. Come!" he eased our door closed and nudged me toward the one over which the boy stood.

"Let's go!" Christine continued, directly above us now. "There are times, Raoul, when I wonder if you aren't mad! You always hear impossible things. Come on. Come on!" She tried to drag him away, but couldn't budge him.

"Frighten him," Erik said suddenly into my ear. I jumped as though I'd be struck, then I reached up and snapped the trap closed.

"Maybe he's there," came the boy's muffled voice above us.

"Oh dear," said Erik. "He doesn't scare so easily anymore, does he now?"

"Don't be silly, Raoul," Christine responded immediately. "It was a trapdoor closer. The opera employs so many of them, and of course, it is what they do. We have door closers too, you know. They all need to have something to do, don't they?"

The boy's voice excited. "But what if it was he, Christine?"

"No, no. He's shut himself up. He's working."

I turned to Erik. "You're _working?_"

He glanced at his watch. "Officially, yes."

"Nice job."

"Jealousy is a deadly sin, Daroga."

"So is sloth," I replied. Neither of us dared say a word about lechery, though. If there is a hell, I promise you Erik and I are both going straight to it.

"Did you hear that?" Erik interrupted my thoughts.

"Hear what?"

"Why our little diva is telling some very interesting stories about the poor old Opera ghost."

"Oh my."

We could no longer hear them clearly and of course we could not see them at all, so in curiosity we hurried to another trapdoor and lifted it just enough so that we could peer out, our eyes above ground, and everything else below.

Christine kissed Raoul suddenly just as we emerged. As we watched, she drew back and stood looking at him, unblinking, as though she expected something to happen.

Raoul blushed deeply, a dark reddish color that neither Erik nor I is fair enough to enough to turn. Christine blinked once, twice, glanced away and looked back to Raoul.

"Strange girl. Why's she staring like that?" I hissed to Erik.

His smile faded as he answered me. "She's waiting for what happens after a kiss."

My own grin grew wider. "What happens after a kiss..." I mused while I waited. Indeed, Raoul de Chagny, what happens _after_ a kiss? Nothing, apparently, unless you count the blushing and the uneasy fidgeting. "What does she think is supposed to happen after a kiss?" I said turning to Erik slightly but keeping my eyes on the young couple in case it should suddenly happen.

Erik blushed slightly. "Certain things," he said. "And then perhaps another kiss."

I looked back to the boy who had gone from deep red to sickly pale. "Kiss her, boy," I urged under my breath. But he did not.

A moment later the couple wandered away and that day we did not pursue them because after all, Erik was _working_.

It is true, Erik was expected to be working. I can't tell you exactly what he was supposed to be doing because I didn't ask, but the reality is that while Erik could sometimes slip away, there were other times when he insisted his presence was absolutely necessary. Whether those times were true Opera business or Opera ghost activities I never asked. i I suppose that I have always had a certain regard for Erik's secrets. Whatever the case, I did not ask, but followed the young couple in his absence and listened to their conversations. Meanwhile, in the evenings, if Erik did not have to be present for the production, we spent our nights as far from the Opera as we could manage returning the following day, Erik to work, and I to spy on his little innocent for him.

But it was being followed that drove Christine Daaé to near madness and thus eventually led to the tragedy that Erik and I only narrowly escaped. Immediately following the day I slammed the trap closed at her feet she met the Vicomte in one of the upper levels outside the amphitheatre, far far from all the trapdoors. The next day she did the same and the day after that she came late and crying. It was on this day that Raoul de Chagny demanded she tell him the secret of the mans's voice. I retreated from my hiding place to find Erik. Meanwhile, the Vicomte de Chagny promised Christine he would take her far away. This might be our solution, I thought, as I hurried away to tell Erik.

When I found him and said as much, he grinned wryly and set aside his tools. "Don't singers ever rehearse anymore? Seems there's always work enough for me."

"Poor Erik," I at once. "You need a break. Come with me for a bit. Surely we can stir up some fun."

He shrugged. Why not, his expression seemed to say, and at once and followed me up, up, up into the altitudes, the highest level of the theatre where one is very, very high above the trapdoors.

We discovered the young couple at once, in a high dusty corner between a rafter and a buttress. "I'll hide you in some unknown corner of the world where he can't come looking for you," Raoul was still (or again) assuring Christine. "You'll be saved and then I'll leave, since you've sworn that you will never marry."

Erik looked perplexed. "She'll never marry? Why, what on earth is she trying to do with him then?"

"I have no idea," I told him quite honestly, "but they have been playing at being engaged for at least a week. Seems it started before she came to you about La Juive."

Erik frowned. "_Playing_ engaged?"

"Yes. They are engaged, but they will never marry."

He snorted. "And they have both agreed to this?"

"Apparently."

"Well, there's something to try," he mused.

"But they don't _do_ anything, Erik. They don't do anything but chase each other innocently through the rafters and tell old stories."

He frowned heavily. "What's the fun in that?"

"I have no idea."

We shrugged at one another and looked about.

Having suddenly been frightened by something, Christine had grabbed Raoul suddenly and dragged him higher still.

Despite the care she had taken to look constantly behind her, she did not see the two shadows that followed her like her own shadow, which stopped and stated when she stopped or started, and made no more noise than shadows do. Of course, Raoul noticed nothing whatever, which is hardly surprising. He is not the most observant young man to begin with, and with Christine going in front of him one can be most assured that nothing behind him interested him in the least. It was in this way that Erik and I were able to pursue the young pair all the way to the rooftop undetected.

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**Shameless Begging:** Oh do please leave me a review!!!


	48. Magic Fingers

**Author's Note:** YAY! Ten reviews, so I can post another chapter to make up for the week that I skipped out and made you all wait. Many apologies for that one, and I hope this early post makes up for it. (I MIGHT be a little further ahead and willing to post a little more, too... let's see what my mood is like in the next day or two, eh?)

**Dedication:** This chapter is for HeartRose who specifically requested: Oh, please if you can get Erik to say this, "Me and my magic fingers." Thank you! in a review once a long time ago. Well, ask and you shall receive. Here is it. Enjoy.

**Humor Warning:** I found this one funny. Of course, I always TRY to be funny, but I actually felt like I was succeeding this time around, so please don't eat or drink!!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own a HUGE portion of this text, which is lifted DIRECTLY from Leroux. Hey, it's not MY fault Leroux quoted Christine and Raoul all through his chapter. What was I supposed to do? Leave this scene out? But the rooftop scene is one of the most important!! (Sadly, I had to break it into three parts. Here's part one.)

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Suddenly we were upon the rooftops, amid the glorious gardens and still pools, beneath a dusky sky, high above the city. If you have not visited the roof of the Paris Opera, you really must if you get the opportunity. Whenever I am there, I am always seized with the desire to caper about gaily, and as there was no one to see me that night I did so, twirling and spinning to infinity until suddenly Erik stopped me as one might stop a spinning top by slamming one's hand upon it.

I whined.

"Hush."

I did.

Christine and Raoul walked slowly by a pool, and she looked upward at the swift moving clouds. I looked upward, too. It was a chill January evening, but the heavy clouds suggested rain rather than snow. I tried to gauge their speed. Perhaps they would blow far enough away before they burst forth.

"Soon, we'll be going farther and faster than the clouds, to the end of the world, and then you'll abandon me," she said. "But if, when the time comes for you to take me away, I refuse to follow you, then, Raoul, you must take me anyway."

"You're afraid you'll change your mind, Christine?"

"I don't know. He's a demon!"

Erik put a hand upon my sleeve and another upon his chest. "Moi?" he mouthed.

Christine pressed herself against Raoul. "I am afraid!" she said, trembling.

"Hey!" Erik burst out, and I put my hand upon his lips to remind him that we were still eavesdropping which involves, in a good part, anyway, being silent. "But she's not afraid at all!" he said quietly. "She's just... That's my... She's using..." He fell silent but his lips still worked uselessly. "She's trembling!" he finally managed to say. I should have made the connection, but I did not. I was trembling a bit myself, though with cold rather than fear. It was not necessarily a cold night as January nights go, but it certainly wasn't warm and I had not intended that we would come out onto the roof; I was not wearing my warmest cloak. I dug in my pocket and found my Astrakan cap, put it upon my head and was grateful that I had not thrown it away that afternoon I planned to.

Meanwhile, "I am afraid of returning to live with him underground!" Christine continued.

Erik's lips were at my ear and quietly he murmured through already-chattering teeth, "I thought she said I didn't live underground."

"Yesterday she confessed that you do."

"Would have been nice if someone told me that."

"I just did."

An icy wind whipped around us, and Erik and I moved closer to the stone pillar behind which we hid.

In the meantime, Raoul had asked what forced Christine to go back.

"Yes, what indeed?" I asked Erik. "What forces her to return to you?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I have no idea."

"You have no idea," I said flatly, disbelieving. "Don't try to fool me. I have known you long enough. Our bet and all your silly games are over, so just tell me. Why is she compelled to return?"

Erik held up his hands solemnly and waggled his fingers about. "Me and my magic fingers," he said with a grin.

I shoved him and he stumbled a few steps, letting out a laugh as a grunt that made a tiny cloud before his mouth and false nose in the cold air.

"If I don't go back to him, dreadful things may happen," Christine explained. "But... I can't take it anymore. I can't take it. I know that we're supposed to pity those who live 'underground' but this one is too horrible. Still, the time is nearing—do I have no more than a day? And if I don't come to him, he'll come looking for me with his voice. He'll drag me off to his house underground and then he'll get down on his knees before me—with his death's head. He'll tell me that he loves me! And he'll weep. Ah, those tears, Raoul. Those tears in the two black sockets of the death's head. I can't bear to see the flowing of those tears again."

"I'm so confused," Erik whispered, as though we were two audience members at a very confusing opera. "Did she just say I was the most terrible thing in the world and she can't bear to look at me? Because I thought so, and yet a moment later, she can't she can't bear to have me cry. I'm so confused," he said again.

I did not respond.

"Let's run away, Christine!" Raoul was saying. "_Now_, Christine." He took her by the hand and led her as though the leave the rooftops and I had no doubt he would lead her directly out of the Opera, out of the city, out of the country if he thought need be. Goodness, that boy was smitten.

Erik grabbed both my hands suddenly. "Yes! Go _now_!" he hissed. He bounced on his toes and squeezed my fingertips.

"No, no! Not _now_! It would be too cruel!"

Erik released my hands with a disappointed sigh.

"Let him hear me sing once again tomorrow night for one last time. And then we'll go away. At midnight. You'll come get me in the dressing room at exactly midnight. He'll be waiting for me in the dining room by the lake. We'll be free and you can take me away. Even if I refuse—you must swear to that Raoul. Because I fear that if I return there, I'll never come back. Never."

"Mon Dieu," Erik grumbled, and he slapped his large bony hand over his face.

"Did you hear that?" Christine said turning around. "It's so dreadful, is it not, to tremble like this?"

"Oh, she is trying so hard," Erik said. "But it does not work. Why does she have to try so hard with him? She has only to return to me and I would—" he stopped himself suddenly and clutched at me. "_That_ is why she must return to me!" he said in a tone so triumphant one would have thought he had unraveled all the mysteries of the universe.

I slapped his hands away and shushed him again. Christine's face drew up and turned pale, and I was certain she would cry.

"The first time I saw him, I thought he was going to die!" she breathed solemnly.

"Why?" asked Raoul. "Why would you think that?"

"Indeed," muttered Erik. "Why indeed?"

"Because I had looked at him!" Christine wailed in a voice filled with horror.

_I_ looked at Erik. He clutched at his heart and bent at the knees weakly. Then we both burst out laughing in sharp wheezes and cut ourselves short desperately with our hands lest we be apprehended.

"There's someone in pain," Raoul said aloud. Erik was perfectly silent now; I doubled over in near-agony. If I drew breath it would surely make a terrible gasping sound, but I could not live more than a moment more without air. My will to live conquered my choice to stay silent and I took a deep wheezing breath. Erik turned sharply to look at me. "Someone is perhaps hurt," Raoul said. "Did you hear?"

I swallowed my giggles and clutched my belly. Erik put himself between me and the couple as though to protect me, and I wondered how that could possibly reduce sound's tendency to carry.

"I can't say, Christine managed. "Even when he's not here, my ears are filled with his sighs."

I had just managed to get my breathing under control but at Christine's words Erik put his hands over his heart in mock tenderness and batted his lashes at me. I doubled over once again.

"Still, if you heard..." Christine stood up and walked a few steps, looking around. Raoul did the same.

Erik and I made strangled faces at one another and then forced ourselves to settle down.

Christine sat down again and held her arms out to Raoul, who eased himself down beside her without entering her embrace.

The wind howled across the rooftops and I looked skyward once again. Perhaps the wind had blown the clouds away, but more had come still more foreboding than those before. They hung above us, heavy, black and pendulous.

"How did you see him the first time?" he asked.

"For three months, I heard him without seeing him," she said.

"You see?" said Erik. "I told you I never let her see me!"

"I believed you."

"You never paid up."

"You went for double or nothing and lost in round two."

"Oh yes. Damn."

I listened as Christine recounted the story of how the Angel of Music first came to her. Erik beamed with pride. "Really, one of my greatest achievements," he said immodestly. "It would make a fantastic opera."

"What was the accompaniment?" I asked Erik as Christine struggled to describe it.

"Erik's secret," he said smugly and turned away.

"I saw you in the audience one evening, Raoul, and I didn't even think to hide my joy when I came back to the dressing room. Unfortunately for us, the Voice was already there and could tell by how I looked that something new had taken place. He asked me what happened, and I saw no reason not to tell him our sweet story, nor to keep from him the knowledge of the place you had in my heart. The Voice was silent for a while. I called to it; it did not reply. In vain, I begged it to speak. I was out of my mind with the fear that it had left me forever!"

I poked Erik. "What the hell was that about?"

"An unfortunate coincidence," Erik said, and blanched.

"Please." I rolled my eyes.

"_Real_ly," he said. His eyes made an urgently pained, pleading look.

"An unfortunate coincidence?"

He nodded rapidly and looked a little sick.

"What type of unfortunate coincidence?"

"Please, Daroga!" he hissed, turning his face down and away.

Christine fell silent a few moments and leaned against Raoul as I continued to stare intently at Erik. "Why didn't you respond to her?"

His eyes moved all about, then came to rest on mine. "I _had_ to _leave _suddenly," he said.

"Had to leave?" I pressed. Christine was telling Raoul what Erik supposedly said the following morning, but I was stuck on what he hadn't said the night before. "Suddenly?" And I should have had more tact, I am sure, but I went on "What _for_?"

Erik's cheeks tinged a darker red. "My _stomach_ was upset," he said at last. "I _had_ to go."

I stifled an inappropriate giggle and tried to look sympathetic.

Erik looked mortified, but continued. "I was so sick," he said, looking a bit green remembering it. "I was in the bathroom _all day_." He took a deep breath. "But I didn't want to disappoint her. I wanted her to think I had heard her sing. I thought surely, half an hour, I could manage." He sighed. "Alas. Within ten minutes..." He placed a hand on his abdomen as though he felt the gurgling sensation at present. "I had to leave," he insisted. "Suddenly."

I couldn't help it. I laughed aloud.

Humiliated, he spun away from me.

I patted his shoulder and fought to control my laughter. "I'm sorry," I said, though tears of amusement leaked out my eyes.

Erik withdrew from me and folded his arms sullenly.

"I don't know why Carlotta didn't show up that night at the theatre on the night of the gala," Christine said.

"I do," I said softly, venerating Erik with my tone. It was apparently not enough to assuage his shame, and he did not acknowledge me.

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**Shameless Begging:** Reviews ALWAYS put me in a good mood......!


	49. Horror, horror, horror!

**Author's Note:** Wow! You guys are AMAZING! 10 Reviews in 24 hours, so guess what? I'm giving you ANOTHER bonus post. This should at LEAST make up for the couple of times I didn't manage to post. I might be able to do ONE more bonus post because I finally got far enough ahead of you to be able to do that... but this time around, let's have EVERYONE review, okay? Seriously! It'll be fun. Just send me an emoticon or a "hi!" or something. I'm curious to see who all out there is checking this out.

**Humor Warning:** We've been doing great but we almost had a food in windpipe accident last chapter, so PLEASE use extreme caution.

**Disclaimer:** Phantom of the Opera owns me. Duh.

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"Alas, one can't trick the Voice," Christine told Raoul. "It had recognized you and it was jealous. For the next two days, it made atrocious scenes. It said 'If you didn't love him, you wouldn't be trying to escape him. He'd be an old friend whose hand you'd shake as with anyone else. If you didn't love him, you wouldn't be afraid to be alone with him and me in your dressing room. If you didn't love him, you wouldn't send him away.'"

"I did say that," Erik muttered, still with his arms folded, testing the waters to see whether I would laugh at him again. "I suppose I made it up in part to explain my... absence."

I swallowed my giggles and put my arm around his shoulders as Christine related the Perros trip to Raoul. I noticed she left out the man she met on the train with whom she'd had such kind interactions regarding his violin. Had it been an insignificant moment to her that she had forgotten immediately after she stepped off the train, or did she wish to conceal from Raoul that she had been somewhat affectionate with the man? I wondered.

"The Voice must have found it easy to take advantage of such a child as I was!"

"Should I feel guilty?" Erik asked me suddenly.

I shrugged.

Erik regarded me a moment, then he seemed to remember his earlier embarrassment and withdrew again to sit sulking a distance away from me.

When Christine told Raoul of the night in the Perros cemetery I smiled at the differences in her perception and my own. Erik rolled his eyes at her having recognized her father's bowing style and broke his silence. "The girl has a wild imagination," he said. "I never even heard old Daaé play." But it was not until she described the night he took her through the looking-glass of her dressing room that he ceased to appear amused.

"A hand closed over my mouth, Raoul!" she said in a horrified tone "a hand that smelled like death." As Christine talked of the journey below, of fainting and waking again with her head upon Erik's knee, Erik shook himself and brushed at his sleeves as if to brush away debris. I glanced at him. "Gentle as his hands were, they still smelled of death!" Christine continued. Erik glanced warily at his hands then up at me.

"Ammonia," I reminded him.

His reflective eyes rolled in the darkness. "Oh yes. Ammonia. Death. They smell _so_ much alike." He rolled his eyes again and I buried my face in my sleeve until the laughter passed once again.

"My eyes adjusted to the darkness," Christine continued. "I judged that we were in a narrow gallery which I imagine encircles the Opera, whose substructure is immense. Once, and only once dear, I had gone down into those prodigious cellars, but I had stopped at the third level, not daring to go further down into the earth. And yet, two more levels opened beneath me."

Erik stretched and yawned, his breath once again making a tiny white cloud in the cool air.

"...a brilliant light in the midst of which I had been placed. I leapt to my feet. I had all my strength back. I was in the middle of a large drawing room which appeared to be adorned with flowers that were at once magnificent and ridiculous because of the silk ribbons by which they were tied to their baskets, the kind that are sold in the shops on the boulevards."

I sniffed. Erik ignored me, probably assuming the chill night air was getting to me. I sniffed again, louder this time. Erik glanced over. I waited until he looked away then sniffled again. He glanced at me again. When he turned away this time, I could tell he watched me from the corners of my eyes, wondering, perhaps, if my nose was running and had I forgotten my handkerchief. I took a slow, deep, deliberate breath through my nostrils. Then I leaned toward him and sniffed rapidly multiple times. "Don't you smell it?" I said.

"Smell what?"

"Something smells like death up here."

He gave me a shove that toppled me and I spent several moments on the ground because the effort of picking myself up was too difficult when coupled with the effects of my laughter.

"Nor did I wonder what was to become of me or what was the cold tyrannical design that had brought me to this living room to be incarcerated like a prisoner in a jail or a slave in a harem!"

Erik lifted a bony finger. "Harem," he said. "Now, _there _is an idea." He waggled an eyebrow at me. I grinned.

"The man, still kneeling, evidently understood the meaning of my tears."

Still fixated on the idea of a harem, Erik was pointing at me and pantomiming to indicate the traditional attire the girls might wear. I smirked. Little did he know, I'd already persuaded _my_ girls to wear them.

"He said, 'It's true, Christine! I am neither an angel nor a genie, nor a ghost. I am Erik.'"

It was about this time that Erik, continuing with his pantomime routine, started to imitate a harem girl's dance. Ridiculous! To make him stop I hissed "Erik!" perhaps to too loudly.

Yes, too loudly! Raoul and Christine turned simultaneously toward me. Raoul got to his feet but before he could take a step toward where we hid, Christine grabbed him by the hand and pulled him downward again.

"Stay! You have to know all _here_."

"Why here? The night air isn't good for you." He had a point, actually. It was dreadfully cold by now, for the sun had long since set and the wind grew stronger. I glanced at Erik in concern. I was grateful for my furry warm Astrakhan hat, but the chill air certainly wouldn't be good for Erik, fake nose or not. He wore a simple cloak of fine but thin material. I glanced upward at the storm still brewing above us which no one but me seemed to notice.

Meanwhile, "We don't need to fear anything but the trapdoors," Christine told Raoul.

"Christine! Christine!" It seemed to me that the Vicomte was shouting needlessly considering that Christine was right beside him. "Something tells me that we are wrong to wait for tomorrow night and that we ought to get away tonight.

"I tell you that he'll be in agony if he doesn't hear me tomorrow night!"

"Agony?" I asked at once.

"I might be in agony if I do," Erik grumbled.

"If you run away from him forever, it will be hard not to cause Erik pain," Raoul said.

"You're right about that, Raoul. Because my flight will certainly kill him. But it's a balanced risk for both sides, because if we stay, he may kill us."

I looked at Erik with wide eyes. Erik _can_ sometimes go to extremes, you know.

He shook his head at me frantically. "I never said I'd kill _anyone_." I nodded, eager to show that I believed him readily, not like the night of Firmin Richard's concierge. "She's a bit melodramatic at times," he added.

"Oh really?" My voice dripped with sarcasm.

"He would commit murder for me!" Christine burst out.

Erik held up his hands to me indicating I-never-said-that-I-don't-know-where-she-gets-these-wild-ideas. I nodded reassuringly. I would never doubt him again.

"But surely one can find where he lives. They can go looking for him. Now that we know that Erik is no phantom, he can be talked to and made to answer!"

Erik looked alarmed. I patted his arm. "Just stay home. They'll never check Rue de Rivoli," I said soothingly, and he nodded.

Christine was far less calm. "No, no," she insisted. "There's nothing to be done against Erik except to flee him!"

"Then why, when you could run away from him, did you _return _to him?"

Christine froze with a look of one who has become too entangled in her own web of lies. "Because... Because it was _necessary_. You'll understand when you know how I got away from him!"

"I hate him!" Raoul burst forth with such anger that Erik and I and Christine all jumped a little. "I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!"

"You know, Daroga," interjected Erik with a slight sniff, "I sometimes get the feeling that the Vicomte de Chagny doesn't care for me much."

"Do _you_ hate him Christine?"

"No," she said softly. Oh dear. That look. No, Christine far from hated Erik, I was sure. I looked at Erik and I could tell at a glance that he saw it too. He tried to look nonchalant. After all, what was one more lady friend? But if she continued to suggest marriage, we'd have a problem. Besides, what of Raoul? He did not appear to want to go away.

"Why so much talk?" The Vicomte was upset now. "You must _love_ him. All that fear and terror! All that is love of the most delectable kind. The kind one doesn't admit. The kind that makes you shiver when you think about it. Just imagine! A man who lives in an underground palace!" He made a nasty face, sneering like, and I didn't like him at all.

"Then you want me to go back there! Be careful Raoul. I've told you, if I go back there, I shall never return!"

Erik and I glanced at one another again.

"Do you want me to go back there?" she asked again in a threatening tone.

"Before I answer that I'd like to know what feeling you have about him, since you don't hate him."

I reached out and gripped Erik by the hand suddenly as though the outcome of Christine's response decided my fate.

"I love him," I was sure she was going to say. "Raoul, I'm desperately and painfully in love with him, and I think of him night and day and I cannot bear to be away from him!" But I was a fool at heart to think she could say it. She could not tell Raoul that, for if she did, she would lose Raoul forever, and Erik had not given her cause to think that there was a future, unless Erik's words to me were false, and I had promised myself never to doubt him again.

"Horror!" Christine fairly shouted, throwing her arms out as though to keep a vision of Erik far from her.

Erik pointed a bony finger at his emaciated chest and mouthed, "Moi? Horreur?" I poked him in the chest and nodded, but he looked suddenly sad, though until now he had not seemed to take any of her words seriously.

"Oh, it's dreadful!" she continued. "He horrifies me, but I don't hate him!" The expression on her face looked far more like sympathy than horror. "How can I hate him? Imagine him at my feet in his home beside the underground lake. He blames himself. He curses himself. He implores my forgiveness! He admits his imposture. He tells me that he has kidnapped me out of love." Here I heard an impact beside me and turned to find Erik's forehead against his hand where the two had made sudden, abrupt contact. "He loves me. He lays at my feet a great and tragic love. He shut me up with him underground for love. But he respects me. He grovels, he moans, he weeps, and when I get up and tell him that I will only despise him if he does not set me free, he shows me the way to leave. Only, he stands and he sings, and I remember that he is the Voice. And I stayed. We talked no more. He played the harp and sang to me, and I was ashamed. He sang me to sleep, and when I woke, I was in a little room."

She went on to describe the room and her conversation with Erik.

"I shut the door in his face—" I glanced at Erik and he nodded. "–and went into the bathroom. I took a bath after placing a magnificent set of scissors nearby with which I had decided to kill myself if Erik, after having behaved like a madman, stopped conducting himself like a gentleman."

I cocked and eyebrow at Erik and he shrugged back. "I suppose it's a good thing you didn't try anything that night after all, eh?"

He looked unimpressed. "I don't think she had any scissors."

She went on to describe her first meal with Erik in some detail, and I felt a tiny surge of pride that she described it as a very good breakfast despite the fact that it was actually lunch. She described Erik and his home, his disturbing decor and her reaction to it, and his Don Juan Triumphant music, which he left lying around, because he could. Suddenly they were singing from _Otello_. So _that's _what the strange piece was!

And then his mask was in her hand and, "Horror, horror, horror!" she cried.

"Horror, horror, horror," Erik mocked.

"Hush," I hissed. "You're too loud!"

Indeed, Raoul had turned once again and looked about him.

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**Shameless Begging:** See how fast I update when everyone reviews? (Well, not everyone... that was nowhere NEAR everyone. Hey... let's try something new this chapter. How about if EVERYONE who reads says SOMETHING, even if it's just "Hi. I'm reading your story" so that I have some idea how many of you there are and who you are. Won't that be FUN?)


	50. The very image of horror

Author's Note: WOW! You guys are AMAZING! As of the last time I checked, we were 20 for 20 on reviews of chapter 49, and I heard from a bunch of people (well, at least six, I think) I had not heard from previously. Incredible! Thanks SO MUCH you guys! (And it was so amazing that I'm thinking there's got to be some special incentive offered for reviewers of chapter 49 because I'm so impressed with all y'all. Meantime, if you get to this chapter without having reviewed chapter 49, please do go back and tell me your thoughts so that if there IS an incentive, it's for you, too, okay? So, let's wind-up this roof top scene so we can move on to the end of the story. Oh no! Not the end of the story! Yes... the end of the story. We're not there yet, but as we're following the Leroux timeline, we're very close as you can easily tell if you glance at your copy of the novel. Oh dear. Whatever shall we do then? Perhaps I should NOT post as fast... and yet, like Gaston Leroux himself, I have this tendency to write fast and furious as I rapidly near the end of something I've been working on for a long time. Can you believe that as of November 3 we'll have been together for six months? Wow. Thanks, you guys, for hanging in there with me.

Warnings: There's a bad word or two in here. Sorry. Daroga is always very protective of his Erik. Additionally, there's some funny stuff, so swallow what you've got in your mouth and put the rest of your Halloween candy DOWN before reading, just in case.

Disclaimer: I don't own POTO. I DO own an awful lot of candy since hardly any trick-or-treat'ers came to my house. I'm not sure whether to be disappointed or thrilled.

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He dropped his volume but not the sarcasm. "What did she _think_ the mask was _there_ for? _Decoration_?"

"It is strange, Christine, how a night as calm and sweet as this one can be filled with groans. It is as if the night were grieving for itself—and us."

"Oh, now the boy's a poet," Erik mocked, and I wondered again was he a bit too enamored of Christine herself, or just unaccustomed to competition?

"I tore off his mask, Raoul, and what I saw was terrible. A face without a nose, with sunken cheekbones and deep set eyes..."

She glanced at Raoul and I did so as well. He seemed unimpressed with this detail.

"Can you imagine, Raoul, a man without a nose? And his hair was thin, not just like he was balding but—but—missing in patches. And his eyes were a peculiar shade of yellow."

The boy didn't look particularly frightened, and Christine seem disturbed by this, somehow, as though she wanted her story to have some great impact on him, and was finding it difficult to ensure it did. I recalled that not too long earlier Raoul had burst out that he hated Erik, and I wondered why Christine did not return to the topic that had caused that outburst, but the girl's thoughts meandered about though she tried to tell everything in order.

She glanced at Raoul again and went on. "All right, Raoul, I shall tell you everything. You have seen death's heads, have you not?"

Christine went on to describe Erik's face in horrendous and vivid detail. I poked at him to distract him and rolled my eyes and yawned loudly without covering my mouth to indicate that she was boring me and then I pointed at some church spires as though I had never noticed them before and asked Erik unrelated questions about architecture, but he would have none of it. He listened to her describe first the dried skulls that she was sure Raoul had seen, and how they were terrible, but not so terrible as to look upon Erik. She went on to describe his eyes as fiery and like the Devil. She concluded that he was the very image of Horror, and represented all that is hideous.

Young Raoul de Chagny wore an expression of mild distaste.

Erik looked stricken.

I leaned in close to his ear and said quite confidently "She's absolutely full of shit, Erik. I always thought you looked a lot like your father, and you recall what a nice-looking gentleman he was."

He let out his breath slowly and a strange expression spread over his features. I had said it only to put him at ease, remembering the words I heard from his mother when I lay beneath the bed that afternoon, but as he relaxed, I saw it for real. Erik is not such a bad-looking fellow. He just... well, he ought to wear his nose is all I will say. From a distance it is merely unsettling, but up-close, one sees directly inside his head in a way that one never should. Truly, some things are best left private. But I digress.

"He whispered hateful incoherent things to me, disordered words, curses, delirious phrases. Who knows what he said? _Who knows_?"

Raoul did not seem quite as upset as Christine expected him to be at this.

We exchanged glances again. "I didn't say much," he whispered with a shrug. "Something like, 'What the hell do you think you're doing?' I really hadn't expected her tear it off as she did. Certainly not that first day anyway. I might have worn something beneath it had I realized she had that much nerve."

"Bent over me, he cried 'Look! You wanted to see! See! Feast your eyes! Glut your soul on my accursed ugliness!'"

"I thought a moment ago no one knew what I said," Erik interjected softly.

"Ah, but that version wasn't garnering the desired effect," I replied.

This version was, though. Raoul was beginning to get riled up, I could tell by the way he clenched his fists and twisted his hands together. Christine noticed it too, seemed pleased, and went on.

"'Look at Erik's face! Now you know. It was not enough for you to hear me. You wanted to know what I was made of? You women are so curious!' and he began to laugh as he repeated, 'You women are so curious.' A laugh that was menacing, hoarse, foaming with rage. He continued to say such things as, 'Are you satisfied? I'm handsome, eh? When a woman has seen me—as you have—she becomes mine. She loves me forever. I'm a bit of a Don Juan, you know.' And straightening up he put his hand on his hip and with the hideous thing that was his head wobbling on his shoulders, he thundered, 'Look at me! I am Don Juan triumphant!'"

"It sounds like something I would say," Erik murmured, "but it's entirely out of place here. How long were you watching? Did I say that?" He confusedly ran a hand over his sparse hair and looked moderately disturbed.

"And as I turned my head away," Christine continued, "_pleading for mercy_, he drew it brutally back to him _by my hair_, which he clutched with his dead fingers."

Erik's expression progressed to mortified. "I certainly didn't do _that_!" he told me hurriedly. I nodded reassuringly. Of course. Erik was not capable of abusing a woman in such a fashion. _Never_!

"Enough! Enough! I'll kill him! I'll kill him! In God's name Christine, tell me where that dining room by the lake is. I must kill him!"

"Hush Raoul, if you want to know!" and when Raoul calmed considerably quickly, she went on once again. "Oh, it's still more horrible!" she said. "He said 'What? I'm frightening you? Is that it? You think perhaps I have another mask, eh? That this head is a mask? Very well then. Pull it off like the other one. Come on. Again. Again. I want you to! Give me your hands. If they're not enough I'll lend you mine and together we'll put them together to tear it off.'"

Christine held up her hands with her fingers curved like talons and raked them through the air. Raoul looked about to burst.

"I rolled at his feet, but he seized my hands again Raoul, and he pushed them onto the horror or his face. He scratched his flesh, that horrible dead flesh with my fingernails."

I turned to Erik. Poor Erik! How terrible, how heartbreaking it must be to hear someone you have loved say such things about you! I reached out and put my hand upon his arm as reassuringly as I could. He turned to me. "This," he whispered grandly, "would make a _magnificent _opera!"

I grinned at him. "You're not upset?"

"Upset? Why ever should I be upset? She's so _talented_!"

"'My poor unhappy mother'" Christine recalled. "'gave me as mask for my first and only present!'"

"My, my," Erik commented. "The dear girl lies so well! Look how she includes a bit of the truth to make the whole thing undeniable! I _did_ say that part. What a clever girl! Surely _I_ didn't teach her that!"

"Perhaps they are more like us than we realized," I said dolefully. "Makes you wonder who else has lied about you and in what fashion."

Christine went on to describe the way in which Erik slithered from the room, her return to her own room, the scissors to which she returned—the existence of which Erik continued to consider "the stuff that operas are made of"—Erik's music, how she went to him and reassured him regarding his face and his genius and the way he clutched at her gown and told her he loved her.

Erik wandered away. I wondered idly whether he was more upset than he let on about Christine's unflattering description of his face but decided there was really no way to broach the subject up here on the roof. Instead, I simply watched him intently.

He stood beneath a massive statue of some Greek god-figure holding a harp-like instrument, gripped the statue with one hand and Erik leaned out to look down over the city I held my breath, fearful he might go over the edge. It was a seventeen level drop that even Erik could not survive.

Christine continued her tale in the distance, describing Erik as behaving like a pet dog. I turned to Erik to say "Bah! A dog!" and he was not there. I panicked and peeked over the edge at the surely fatal distance to the ground. As I saw no splattered remains below, I let my eyes rove the rooftop once again. Then somehow I happened to glance _up_.

At, but he was more monkey than dog, surely, for at present he climbed the statue making me still more nervous than before. Christine referred to the time as "my captivity" despite the fact that Erik had shown her the way to leave that very first night and at last, got around to telling of the masked ball just ask Erik perched, crouching atop the wretched statue.

"I passed those few hours with you at great peril to us both," she said.

Erik waved down at me from his perch. I waved back up, feeling moronic.

"During those few hours, I doubted that you loved me!"

"Do you doubt it now, Raoul? Know then that each of my visits to Erik has only increased my horror of him. Because each of my visits instead of appeasing him as I had hoped, as only served to cause him to fall more and more madly in love with me."

It sounded entirely backwards to me. I looked up at Erik to see his reaction. He straddled the god's arm then swung his other leg over to sit, feet dangling. The clouds churned behind him as he shifted his position yet again. I looked fearfully down once again. A rumbling of thunder promised rain soon in addition to the cold. A bolt of lightening treated me to a view of Erik now perched upon the statue, silhouetted against the night sky.

"I am afraid, Raoul! I am afraid, I am afraid, I am afraid!" Christine pressed herself into Raoul's arms.

"Get her boy!" Erik hissed from above. "She's begging you in the only way she knows!"

But the boy did not understand at all. He held her at arms' length away. "You are afraid," he said, "But do you love me? If Erik were handsome, would you love me, Christine?"

Erik chuckled above me. "How about if Erik were not? Would it make any difference at all?"

The thunder cracked again and Erik glanced up and over his shoulder at last noticing the clouds I had been watching all night. I pulled my collar up and my Astrakhan hat down and hoped the weather would hold out just a bit longer.

"Why tempt destiny?" Christine responded, which seemed to me to be not much of an answer. "Why do you ask me about things I hide deep within my conscience the way I would hide a sin? If I did not love you, would I give you my lips? For the first and last time Raoul, take them!" she cried. He pressed his closed lips to her open ones and they kissed clumsily for an instant.

All at once, Erik took a flying leap off his perch landing between me and the couple. He was already running when he landed his cloak unfurled behind him like some great bird as he leapt past the two and swept himself inside. It took me only an instant to realize this act was a reaction not to them but _to the weather_. for an instant later the sky above opened and without so much as a warning droplet, a torrential downpour commenced.

By the time I swept into the protection of the rafters, I was soaked through. The couple was still slower to dive for cover than I. Erik and I both swooped directly past them, but they were so overcome by their emotions and the force of the storm that they seemed not to recognize us for what we were and surely thought us either mere shadows or else something supernatural.

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**Shameless Begging****:** It's probably highly inappropriate to ask for reviews again after you guys just left SO many only two days ago, (especially as THIS chapter isn't QUITE as funny as LAST chapter) but I'm ALL about inappropriate...! Leave reviews, dudes!


	51. An African Forest

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the week between posting. I was busy with the Erik Plush Project needing the glossy hang tag finished in order to meet our deadline, and also with my husband quitting his job, which is the greatest thing he has done in 22 years other than marrying me. The only bad part is he agreed to give the rotten boss one additional week of his life, which is far more than the slave-driver deserves. Oh G-d, deliver us speedily from the hands of our oppressors. Meantime, here's your chapter. Again, sorry for the wait. It's also a little short. I'll try to put up a double post or a mid-week post to make up for it. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** Yeah, yeah. I don't own The Phantom of the Opera. Don't rub it in.

**Humor Warning:** It's short, but I packed in as much humor as I could muster. Hope you like it. Avoid doing anything that would be dangerous while laughing, just in case.

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We giggled like little boys as we darted through the rafters to hide to see what Christine and Raoul would do. The couple scurried past us in blind terror and raced downward at a pace that Erik and I in our middle age struggled to match. They slowed a bit around the eighth or ninth level and when we noticed that we had overtaken them we stopped for desperately needed breath. My pulse throbbed in my neck and my chest ached with the exertion. Surely we were getting too old for this. I was just catching my breath enough to say so to Erik when I noticed Christine running straight for us with Raoul in tow.

Erik still leaned wheezing and oblivious against a wall, so I put myself in their path and warned, "Not this way!" lest Christine see Erik nosed and too-humanly vulnerable.

"Who was that?" I heard the Vicomte ask Christine as they ran off another direction.

"That's the Persian," I thought I heard Christine say, and I wondered that I would be known as such. Surely I am not the only individual of Persian ancestry to be seen about the Opera, am I?

Erik laughed through his breathless puffing and we slid to the ground and dissolved into childish giggles. When we were fully recovered, we got up and made our way back down, first to the ground level and then below shaking our heads and chuckling all the way. We came to our usual entrance in the third cellar and dropped through the hatch into a forest.

I stopped laughing at once. "What the hell?" I said aloud. Then I said nothing more for I was struck mute in my amazement. I stood within what was undoubtedly a forest.

Erik laughed at my befuddlement. "I forgot you hadn't seen it before," he said. "Isn't it wonderful?"

"What the hell?" I managed to repeat.

"It's a _forest,_ you ninny! Oh wait. Look at this." He went to a large central tree and pushed a switch. We were suddenly bathed in light. "Behold!" cried Erik throwing his arms upward. "The _sun_!" And when I said nothing for a long time but merely stood squinting upwards and wondering if I was dreaming he came near and explained, "In case I am ever trapped down here without the light of day for two weeks again. Not that I _plan _to be. But in _case_. One can't be too careful. Isn't it lovely?" He whirled about, arms upraised.

It was then that I noticed the mirrors for dozens of Eriks twirled about me. The mirrors that had previously leaned in this room were now apparently permanently attached to the walls and Erik had built in the center of the room one very large, very leafy tree which was reflected over and back against itself, reflections reflecting reflections to infinity.

"Get me out of here, Erik," I told him. "I feel sick."

"Certainly." He moved confidently to a mirror and pushed. It swung upon revealing the familiar Louis-Philippe furniture.

I collapsed onto the bed. "What the...?" I put my hands over my face. "Your forest discomforts me Erik."

"Perhaps you would prefer an infinite palace instead?"

"What?"

"I'm trying to work in a system of pulleys. You throw a lever and the tree rolls downward into the space beneath the floor and a pillar rolls to replace it. Reflecting an Grecian column instead of a tree makes a palace instead of a forest. It's really quite a simple concept."

I moaned and held my head.

"Speaking of discomfort," he said suddenly, "I'd be far more comfortable if Raoul de Chagny would take Christine Daae away tonight. She's too apt to change her mind."

I nodded. "Yes, but it would completely ruin the performance of _Faust_."

"There are other sopranos, Daroga. The managers would manage."

"True. But there's nothing we can do about it now." Then the thought occurred to me. I sat up. "Unless I go to him now and tell him it would be far wiser if they were to escape tonight."

Erik raised an eyebrow. "Would he listen to you?"

I thought carefully. "He might." Yes, he had just now seen me, and Christine had identified me as 'the Persian.' This could surely be used to my--or rather, Erik's--advantage. I slipped quite easily into my well-practiced imitation of my mother's accent. "He would do well to listen to me. I know well how dangerous is the Trapdoor Lover."

Erik raised his eyebrows. "Go on."

"Yes," I said. "The Persian knows all." I pointed at him dramatically from where I sat upon the Louis Philippe bed. "Recall you were sentenced to death in my country." He grinned and nodded. "Perhaps..." I hesitated. Then I stood and gathered my coat about me imagining it to be an ornate Persian robe. "Yes! I have followed the dreaded Trapdoor Lover far and wide to ensure he never again becomes as dangerous as he once did. "

Erik's grin became wider. "Yes, definitely," he agreed. "It explains your regular attendance at the Opera, as well as Erik's choice to live beneath the ground rather than upon it. After all," he added more seriously, "an unfinished face is not reason enough in and of itself. That I know for certain."

I nodded and avoided a discussion of his face. Instead, I focused on the boyhood fantasy. "The Daroga of Mazanderan has trailed Erik far from his homeland to the place of Erik's birth where he has since remained because... because..." I flailed. "I must have a better reason that simply to watch you!"

"You were forever exiled for sparing my life when I was to be put to a cruel and painful death."

"Yes, yes, that's it. Except don't dwell on the painful part too much or you'll simply endear yourself to the pitying girl once again."

"Indeed. You're absolutely correct in that. As a matter of fact, let us tell Christine absolutely nothing more. Focus on the boy."

I nodded vehemently. "I'll focus exclusively on how dangerous you are to make it clear that it is far too risky to wait until tomorrow--that if waits he may never see his Christine again!"

Erik snorted. "Unfortunately, that part might actually be true, though for entirely different reasons," he moaned.

"Don't worry, don't worry," I insisted. "That will certainly be motivation enough for him. Yes. They should run away together at once after I tell them of all your terrible deeds." I gestured at him, then became self-conscious and glanced down at myself. "Shall I change my clothing first? I don't feel particularly Persian dressed this way."

Erik waved a dismissive hand at me. "You've been in Paris so many years now. And you had to leave so rapidly, you know."

"Indeed."

"Perhaps you even enjoy Parisian dress. It is foreign and exotic to you."

I nodded.

"You got the Astrakhan hat when we were acquainted in Russia."

"We were acquainted in Russia?"

He shrugged. "Sure. Your shah sent you to obtain me." He grinned. "I was known far and wide," he added proudly.

I nodded. I could imagine myself in another life crossing dangerous terrain to a harsh Russian territory to find a man of great reknown, a master magician, to entertain the shah's beautiful but demanding first wife. I said as much.

Erik looked somewhat less pleased. "You said I was dangerous," he pouted. "Magicians aren't particularly dangerous, Daroga. I'm supposed to be a political assassin."

"Of course, of course," I agreed. "A political assassin. That comes after. You began as a simple court magician--"

Erik interrupted grandly: "I was never a _'simple'_ anything."

"All right, all right, you began as a magnificent but lowly magician--"

"The greatest magician in all the world! Others became jealous and--"

"Yes! The Shah's personal magician was furious that you bested him in the court and so--"

"They threw me to the lions--"

"Do they _have _lions in Persia, Erik?"

"How should I know. I've never _been_ there, Daroga."

"Well, neither have I. Just in case, let's leave the lions out."

"Fine." He looked a little sullen.

I felt bad. "They threw you," I said, mostly to appease him "into a pit where you were made to fight--"

"--to the death!"

"--prisoners--"

"Yes!"

"You can get still more dangerous later. You can travel to India and learn the art of strangulation!"

We both fell silent for a moment and our eyes met. Neither said what each knew the other was thinking: Joseph Buquet.

I changed the subject. Erik wanted to be a political assassin, did he? "You were instrumental in the Persian war against Afghanistan and defeated the emir single-handedly."

Erik laughed. "Good God, Daroga! How old _am_ I?"

I shrugged. "How old do you _want_ to be?"

He shrugged. "It doesn't matter to me, but the Afghan-Persian war? What _year_ was that? I'd have to be over sixty-five!"

A guffaw burst from me so suddenly and so loudly I clapped my hands over my mouth in embarrassment. It was true. My mother had learned of that war only from my grandparents. I shrugged at Erik. "Sorry."

"No, no, leave it," he said between giggles. "It fits. Let Christine wonder in amazement when her young man tells her how old I am. It will leave her mystified at how I managed to satisfy her during her time here."

I caught my breath and looked at my watch. "All right. I'd best head above now if I hope to catch the boy before he leaves."

"Indeed," Erik replied, still chuckling. "Don't forget I wear a mask all the time, Daroga."

"Of course, of course," I said, exiting the Louis Philippe room. I paused in the doorway. "Shall I meet you _here_ or at the _flat_ when I'm finished?"

He smiled broadly. "Here, of course," he said, lacing his fingers together and fluttering them excitedly. "I've the sudden urge to compose."

I shook my head at him, went out through the main door, and paddled across the lake through the mist that often gathered there.

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**Shameless Begging:** It has been a week since I have heard from you. Please leave some words.


	52. Quite an Unhappy Condition

**Author's Note:** Special Treat--a mid-week post. It's late Tuesday evening, almost Wednesday, so I'm calling this a reversion to my Wednesday-posting that I used to do. We hit 10 reviews and sort of dwindled off, so I figured that meant that most of you had either read and commented or else read and not commented this round. So here's the next chapter. As I warned you previously, even comedy can't stay all fun all the time, as we learned in part 14 when Erik's friend and coworker Joseph Buquet took his own life. But don't worry too much. It's still ultimately going to stay a comedy.

**Warnings:** This gets a little dark. No, not dark. Not like the Buquet chapter, anyway. Just a bit serious. Nothing funny about the dilemma that arises here, so I poked fun at the situation anyway. Hope to offend none, of course. And meanwhile, in case your sense of humor is a little sick, eating and drinking is still not recommended.

**Disclaimer:** Ah, what's to disclaim? I totally own everything in this chapter. (Okay... except the Persian and Sorelli as they were originally written, anyway.)

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I hurried most immediately to Christine's dressing room. I had once overheard Christine telling Raoul that it was entirely safe to talk there as Erik had once promised her he would never spy on her in her dressing room. Undoubtedly, that meant he spied there regularly, but I digress. I went most immediately to the dressing room but found it vacant of both singer and vicomte. I wandered aimlessly about wondering where else the couple might go and eventually deciding that they had probably each gone home for the evening. I was a bit disappointed that I did not get to tell my lovely Persia story, but I was not particularly worried. Raoul would surely take Christine away the following night unless his brother prevented it.

Then I was seized with a sudden wave of despair. Philippe would _most definitely_ attempt to prevent Raoul's running off with Christine, and it would drive her right back to Erik's "home" in tears, no doubt. I was standing against a wall chewing my lip and considering what to do when Philippe appeared in the corridor. I slipped into a doorway and faded into the shadows, Erik-fashion. Philippe bustled past me an expression of such consternation on his face that I felt he probably would not have noticed me had I stood out in plain view.

As soon as he departed, I headed up the corridor without any real thought as to where I was going. I followed a familiar route out of habit, it would seem, however, for the hallway led to the dressing room of La Sorelli.

I reached the door with mixed emotions. I had been unsuccessful in my search for Raoul and should report back to Erik at once, and yet I lingered there. Perhaps the dancer remained. I was feeling very low, to be honest, and I entertained the thought that perhaps a brief encounter with my frequent companion would brighten my spirits a bit. On the other hand, I would no doubt feel worse for it later, when I returned to Erik late and saw the disappointment on his face. I turned away, but the flesh is weak. I turned back.

I was just resolving to leave again when the door opened suddenly and the usually-radiant dancer appeared in the doorway dressed to depart for home, complete in her fur coat and hat. Something was amiss, however, for her eyes were red and puffy and she wore no makeup at all.

She startled when she saw me, then recognized me and put her arms around me at once. "Oh, Rasheed!" she whispered. "The answer to my prayers. Thank you for coming. Thank God for sending you!" I wondered at her seeming desperation, despite a number of beaux and congratulated myself on my wondrous timing.

She drew me inside at once and closed the door and locked it, but when I reached for her she embraced me clumsily then drew back once again.

"Rasheed, I'm in such trouble," she continued, twisting her fingers together tightly. I said nothing. "I don't know what I'm going to do. I need help. I don't know where to turn. I haven't many friends here at the Opera, Rasheed." I cringed. She was using my given name far too often. I reflected: had she never used it before, other than when she cried out, clutching my back? Not that I could recall. Why the sudden change? "But you are my friend, are you not, Rasheed? A true friend to me, are you not?"

Was I? "Of course, my darling. Though I thought we were so much more than friends." I took her hands. After all, my errand for Erik could certainly wait ten minutes, could it not? Finding Raoul de Chagny and reporting back to Erik could wait, certainly twenty minutes, yes? Oh Sorelli! My heart pounded and the familiar throbbing filled my body. But she held me at a distance by my hands.

"Then you'll help me?" she whispered harshly. "Say you will."

I managed to pull her close enough to put my hands upon her hips. "I think there is certainly a fair chance of that," I told her enticingly. "What sort of help do you need?" My hands began to rove about her.

"Oh, _please_, Rasheed, please not _now_!" was her reply, and she slapped my hands away. I blinked. Not now? If not _now_, when? "Don't look so hurt," she snapped. "You should know it's nothing personal. It is only.... I must tell you...."

Sometimes, it is necessary to behave in a certain way to get what one desires. I nodded as understandingly as I could and moved toward the chaise. "Sit down, darling, and tell me whatever it is."

She sat, and I crouched before her.

"Rasheed, you know it has been some three weeks since you and I...." she struggled for a word. "Since you and I... since I saw you last," she finished weakly. I nodded. There was no need to put a word to it. We both knew what we had done that night that Erik's music overwhelmed me and sent me above searching for the first willing lady I could find.

She twisted her fingers together. "Since that time," she began again, awkwardly. She twisted her coral ring around and around and around her finger. "Well, to begin with, I have been ill most every day."

I nodded. The weather had gotten colder still since Erik and I made our costumes for the masquerade and showed no signs of improving. I said as much and warned her to avoid drafts.

"No, Rasheed! No! Not like that."

I can only imagine the expression that must have crossed my features. I held out my hands to her imploringly: then _how_?

"I am in quite an unhappy condition."

I wrapped an arm about her. "What has you unhappy, my dear?"

She pushed me away.

"I am only sick in the _mornings_, Rasheed," she said meaningfully.

Imagine my absolute befuddlement! I surrendered. "I don't know what we're talking about," I admitted.

She collapsed into a little heap on a wicker chair and sobbed into her hands while I desperately struggled to think of an illness that might go into remission by evening and but return every morning.

An eternity passed in this fashion before a brief memory surfaced of my mother's strange behavior in the months before I was presented with my younger brother. I am sure I blanched. My legs felt weak. I backed up and found a conveniently-placed chair behind me, into which I immediately sank. "It isn't possible," I murmured. "I never even _touched_ that figurine!"

"Yes, you-- _what_? Did you say '_figurine_'? What figurine? Rasheed, do you understand what I'm telling you?"

Sorelli blurred before me. A fine end this was for me--for us!--then. In my horrified imagination I could visualize it: Erik married to Daae and I to Sorelli, both women growing tiresome with the nagging and complaining that somehow wives do that other ladies do not. Only now did I _truly_ understand Erik's predicament, and yet my situation was far worse, was it not? Silently I cursed my brother and that damnable fertility statue. After all, I had lived this life for so long with nary a problem until now, had I not?

No. No, this could not be. Sorelli sat, red-faced and sniffling before me, waiting for me to respond, but I could not catch my breath to reply to her for many moments. When I did, what I said was something about which I could not be proud later.

"It's not _my_ fault," I said when I could speak again. "Who says it has anything to do with me?"

She simply regarded me with horror a moment.

"At least," I amended, already feeling guilty, "Don't pretend I'm the only one. I know of at least _one_ other." In desperation I added what I should not have: "Maybe dozens."

She cried harder but nodded heroically.

"There's at least as much chance this is Philippe de Chagny's fault, anyway," I said carelessly.

Sorelli's head nodded eternally in agreement.

"Well, why are you coming to me about it, then?" I asked, a little less kindly than I intended. Truth be told, I was in a state of panic and found it quite impossible to behave at all appropriately. "Why, oughtn't you go and tell Philippe then?"

Her answer was scarcely audible, but I believe she whispered, "He can't help me." Then she dissolved in still heavier sobs.

I remembered the unpleasant look upon Philippe's face in the corridor, how quickly he'd been walking, how unhappy he seemed. Sorelli seemed to cry harder still as though she read my thoughts.

"Oh God," I managed. Ridiculously, I put my arms around her. "Well, never mind. It'll turn out all right," I said nonsensically.

She squeezed me quite suddenly. "Then we _shall_ be married?"

"_No!_" I cried, louder than I intended. Conceive of it! Me! With a wife and a child! And what? Still living in Erik's flat? For a moment I tried to visualize Erik's reaction to such a thought but found I had not the mental faculties for such an imagination. "I have a better idea," I said, nonsensically, for in reality I had no idea at all.

"A better idea?" she echoed faintly.

I stood and backed away from her. I needed a few moments to myself for I was suddenly nauseous. I slipped out the door and down the hall in the direction from which I had come, my mind a blank except for the desperate desire not to empty the contents of my stomach into the corridor.

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**Author's Note:** Yeah, I know it got a bit deep, but I tried to keep it light all the same. How did I do? (Is this too predictable? Is it too obvious where this is going?)

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Oooh! And a quick PLUSH PROJECT UPDATE!!

Talked to our factory contact today. Told him I am a teacher and the designer is a teacher too and asked for some factory pics. He said he'd work on it. Asked me who/what Erik was. Thought the project was different from what teachers usually ask for--school mascots and such. I laughed and told him. Amazing that he didn't ask until now, when they are almost done.

His ship-date is next Monday, less than 1 week away. He says that because of my software issues with designing the glossy hang tag they might not ship ON Monday. Shouldn't be more than a couple day delay, though, and he's going to ask the factory if they can make it on schedule anyway. According to all my paperwork, it's 2-3 days by air to get the Eriks here, but I keep telling myself a week so that if they take a little longer than they are supposed to, I'm not disappointed.

So, if things come together as we hope they will, I may still have all the Eriks by the week of Thanksgiving. As a teacher, I have that week off. And my husband just quit his job (don't worry... that's actually /good/ news!!) so he might have that week off as well if his new job doesn't need him already. And so.... we will spend the ENTIRE week packaging up all the Eriks for shipment and mailing out the Eriks that were pre-ordered and paid for. (Right after I spread them all over my living room and get my picture taken in the midst of them. Heck, what's the use of making a plush of your favorite character if you can't have a little fun with it?

Translation: If you want an Erik and you haven't placed an order yet, try to do so this week so that I can ship one to you NEXT week. If you're planning to give Erik as a Christmas present, order early because you now how the holiday mail rush gets with all the holiday cards.

I just can't believe we're finally at this point. This is actually going to happen!!


	53. Comte Philippe de Chagny

**Author's Note:** I can't help it. I'm busy as heck, but I keep posting anyway. I think it's because of the number of you who are reviewing. I'm posting tonight (Thursday) because I probably won't get a chance to be on the computer at all tomorrow. I'll try to post again on Sunday, but just in case we're too busy, I'm posting tonight.

**Humor Warning:** I found this chapter funny, though it's impossible to say exactly why. I don't think it's fall out of your chair funny... maybe just more shake your head and chuckle funny. Let me know if it's the same for you.

**Disclaimer:** POTO owns me, not the other way around.

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**A shameless plug:** For those of you who don't yet know about my Leroux-Erik plush toy project, please visit my website at www . sixpoint . us / Erikindex . html (you'll need to take out the extra spaces, though). Erik is supposed to ship on Monday November 16 from China to my home, but I had to revise his glossy hang tag a couple of times, so he might be a bit late. Suffice to say, Erik will arrive to me by the end of November, so if you want to give one to a phantom fan as a Christmas/Chanukah/Kwanzaa/Winter Solstice gift, I can arrange it if you order now. You can order at the website if you are able to pay with a credit card. If you can't, email me to make other arrangements. Erik is 19" tall total and about 12" when sitting. He costs $24.00 plus about $3.50 for shipping and handling. Go on... you know you want one... everyone is always talking about phantom plushies, and now you have the chance to own one for REAL.

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Before I got more than a few steps down the corridor, I found myself face to face--or rather, face to throat, for I have previously mentioned my shortness of stature, have I not?--with the absolute _last _person in Paris I wished to encounter at that moment: Comte Philippe.

There is no excuse for what happened next, but let me attempt to excuse myself anyway with a reasonable explanation. I must say first that I have never particularly cared for Comte Philippe, though I admit I would be an absolute hypocrite to dislike him for his casual relationships with the Opera ladies. It is difficult to put a reason to my intense dislike of the man, but perhaps it begins with jealousy. The de Chagny family was one of the wealthiest in Paris, and as the head of that family, Philippe controlled a large amount of wealth. I do not need to remind you of my unfortunately economic circumstances of which you have long been aware to illustrate why jealousy in that regard was certainly a contributing factor to my dislike of the man. He was also taller, more comely and more confident than I, all of which, I admit (with the slight exception of comeliness, for which he more than made up in exuberance) Erik was also. But Erik was my friend, while Philippe was _not_. Philippe had never uttered so much as a kind word to me. Indeed, Philippe rather acted as though I did not exist, and I suppose that ultimately it was that invalidation that fueled my seeming hatred of the man.

This night, however, I blamed him entirely for a situation that threatened my lifestyle and my happiness, and so instead of merely thinking some unkind thoughts while appropriately excusing myself and stepping politely around the man, I gave him a hearty shove.

I know. Horribly indecorous of me it was.

Philippe must harbor similar feelings against me, however, though, for rather than point out my breach of etiquette, the supposed-gentleman simply shoved me back. Quite forcefully.

I had not intended to get into any type of altercation, let alone a dual of the fists, but I could not simply yield at this point. I pushed him again, with far more force than the first time. This time he paused to look me in the eye and chew his moustache. After a long moment, he tugged his gloves from his hands and tucked them into his pocket. I raised my hands. I had not been wearing any gloves in the first place and made this obvious tensing my hands into fists, releasing them and clenching once more.

Philippe rushed toward me and I grabbed him by both arms, eager to avoid being punched if I could help it. His forward momentum threw me backward against the wall, off which I kicked, driving his back against the opposite wall. With a twist of his shoulders he bent at the waist whipped me around to slam me into the wall once again. We grappled back and forth with one another in the corridor in this highly undignified fashion until both of us were disheveled and panting, neither having landed a punch upon the other. Realizing the futility of my situation, I released him with one last thrust. He stumbled back but retaliated by gripping me by my lapels. He lifted me from the floor a little and placed me against the wall once again.

"So," I told him, "it would appear that you nobles are no better than the rest of us at heart. At least, you in particular aren't."

He fixed me in his icy gaze. "If you were correct in that, I would have given you quite a thrashing by now to put you in your place."

"My place? And where pray tell might _that_ be?"

His eyes moved up and down me. He opened his mouth to say something, but apparently thought better of it and shut it once again. At last he ventured, "According to your manners, the gutter seems the proper place."

"The gutter," I repeated, certainly outraged beyond decorum. "The gutter indeed. And what then is the place for individuals such as yourself who place young ladies in scandalous positions then decline to take responsibility?"

The man blanched quite completely and dropped his hands to his sides. He stared open-mouthed at me like some giant fish. At last he found his voice. "What do you know of that?" he said accusingly.

"I happen to know a great deal about a lot of things," I said cryptically, carefully, and slightly accented, my fantasy of crossing treacherous landscapes of perilous locales to track down the man capable of providing suitable entertainment for the little Sultana returning dimly to my consciousness. After all, was I not apparently known in the Opera as _the_ Persian? of what use was a reputation if one did not put it to good use?

"What exactly do you know?" he tried again.

"Far more than you would appreciate," I said, cryptically again, accenting my words more heavily. "I came here tracking a dangerous man and stayed to prevent monsterous acts that might lead to the death of a goodly number of the human race. But one makes so many serendipitous discoveries when one embarks upon such an arduous investigation."

"Investigation?" He glanced over one shoulder quickly. "What sort of investigation?"

"I am not at liberty to divulge details. Suffice to say I have unraveled a bit of the mystery of the Opera ghost." I thought perhaps I might spook him a bit with superstition, but here my logic was flawed.

"Opera ghost! Bah!" he spat at once. "A lot of superstitious theatre nonsense."

I shook my head at him as though he were a child. "That's what they want you to believe. It is a very real danger, I daresay, especially to one who would do something dishonorable within the confines of the Opera. It is said that the supernatural protect the inhabitants of realm they choose to haunt."

Philippe de Chagny does not scare so easily, however. He simply turned and walked away muttering something about irrational Orientals under his breath.

"Surely you have heard of the deaths of the scene-shifter and the concierge?" I tried. (If there is an Almighty God, may he forgive me for using Joseph Buquet in such a fashion!)

But all for naught. Philippe de Chagny apparently does not believe in ghosts. He said as much aloud and turned to walk away.

I waited until he was a substantial distance down the hall then called after him.

One does not have to believe in order to be affected," I called. "Perhaps you would prefer to wait and see if the spirits of the Opera protect their principle dancers."

That drew his attention back to me, though he did not return but simply stopped and stared at me from a distance.

"In my investigations, I happen to have learned quite a bit about you," I continued. "A bit about you and a certain La Sorelli. I daresay I know a bit more about your situation than would please you."

That drew him fully back to me to stand once again immediately before me, towering over me.

His eyes narrowed, he was most definitely trying to grasp my role in the whole mess. "I've seen you around here," he said carefully. "I know you've visited with her--"

"And I know that you have done the same," I countered. "It's rather common knowledge what you do during your visits," I ventured. "I can hardly say the same is true of my visits."

I suppose it was the suspicion that broke him. Or perhaps it was the threat of gossip. Or sheer frustration with the situation itself. One cannot know. Suffice to say, he broke.

"What do you _expect_ me to do?"

"Why, marry her, of course." I could hear my own heartbeat by this point, for my own future hinged upon convincing him, and with Erik down below, oblivious, the Opera ghost was certainly not going to appear suddenly to support my insubstantial threats.

I did not expect Philippe's response at all. He _laughed_. Yes. Laughed. A bitter, frustrated laugh. Then he said, "Oh, to be a worthless good-for-nothing who could marry whomever he pleases!"

My mouth fell open and I stared at him. It was not just his words but something about his tone, about the look in his eyes, mere angry slits though they were. Had he presently admitted he _wanted_ to marry her? "My apologies," I said at once. "I had no idea."

Oh, that outraged him entirely. "Is there some reason why I should not? An 'opera wench' is not worthy of love, you think?"

"Love!" I choked. "Love? You _love_ her? Why, then marry her at once! A man of society such as yourself is surely in a position to make the rules rather than be confined by them. Do as you wish as long as it is also _right_ and society shall bend to your will."

"It is a simple thing, perhaps, for one such as you to say."

I desperately wanted to take exception to his characterization of 'one such as I' but I hadn't the time to worry for my own reputation just then. "A great number of noblemen have married dancers," I countered him instead. I knew from Erik at least one other noble with the title of comte who had married a dancer, as well as a baron who had done the same. As a matter of fact, the Opera ghost had quite a list of examples some who outranked Philippe: a marquis, two brothers of kings, and even a king himself! (Incidentally, there was a time long ago when Erik and I had toyed with the idea of my presenting myself to little Giry as a Persian Prince, but I abandoned the idea entirely when I discovered how easily won she was without a magnificent story. But I digress.)

Philippe snorted at me and turned to go.

Nothing I yelled after him drew him back again.

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**Shameless Begging:** Oh, do please let me know if it's all coming together or if it's still a mystery wrapped in an enigma. And as I have forgotten to include the Baron Costelo-Barbezac (the guy who actually marries Meg Giry in Leroux) if anyone has an idea for where I should work him in when I revise, I'd be eternally grateful. Also, did anyone want to see the scene where the money disappears from Firmin Richard's pocket? It may become necessary to produce deleted scenes from the RDJT.... Anyone interested?


	54. The late Comte Philibert de Chagny

**Author's Note:** If you've been following the Erik Plush Project, you'll really enjoy this. Go to www . sixpoint . us / production . html (and take out the extra spaces) to see pictures of the Eriks being produced. The first picture really is the best one. It just blows my mind.

**Humor Warning:** I found this one slightly more than moderately funny. No eating or drinking, please.

**Disclaimer:** Does anyone really own anything in this world? We enter it with nothing and we leave it with nothing. Doesn't it seem meaningless to sue over the stuff that comes between?

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I leapt through the third floor entrance ready for the treed hell that had previously been our innocent foyer. The house on the lake was full of music--a strange piece with an upbeat tempo and melody line filled with staccato notes. "Erik?" I called. No answer.

I did my best to ignore the trees and mirrors. I visualized our hexagonal foyer as it had previously appeared, turned slightly to the left, pushed the panel I suspected led to Erik's music room and sighed with relief. It was the correct panel, and there was my friend, his hands upon his precious organ, playing happily.

"Erik!"

The music stopped abruptly. Erik pivoted on his bench to face me. He smiled.

I leaned in the doorway. "What was that piece you were playing just now?" I said to delay telling him of my failure to apprehend Raoul and encourage his immediate departure with his betrothed, as well as to distract myself from my own unhappy news.

He beamed. "Something new I've just now composed. _Don Juan's Escape_."

I tried to laugh. "After all these years, Erik, you're still emulating that ridiculous literary character? I should say you've far surpassed him by now."

"Indeed, _he_ was just a literary character, Daroga. But _I_ am the real thing. I am the _real _Don Juan."

I couldn't help but crack a smile despite the intense feeling of dread that filled me. "Erik, you are even better than the real thing." I waited a moment while the praise sank in. In only a moment, I would have to tell him the terrible truth about myself, my failure, my rapidly dissipating future....

Erik beamed at me proudly for a moment. Then his face fell slowly. "You were not successful," he said at last, tentatively, almost questioningly.

I shook my head. "I'm sorry."

Silence. He nodded gravely. I could sense his fighting to keep his disappointment from his face.

"I'll go back and try again, Erik. I haven't given up. It is just..." My voice quavered, so I paused to recover. Erik narrowed his eyes to look at me more carefully. "I couldn't find him...." I said hesitantly. "They've gone home, I suppose." I felt my very soul descend to the depths of my being. I felt very heavy. To speak was a supreme effort, and the words came out slowly, and deeper than usual. "I meant to follow them... But something happened... so I returned to you..." I heaved a heavy breath and struggled to find the words to convey my situation to Erik. I managed to mumble, "I need your help," with my head bowed.

He rose slowly and came to stand before me. "_My_ help?"

I nodded and dared to peek up at him.

He looked surprised and retrospectively, I daresay even somehow pleased. "Of _course_," he answered, a fresh grin spreading across his face. He reached around to pull the organ bench forward and sat. "What can I do for you?" He leaned toward me, his hands upon his knees, his eyes urgently searching mine, eyebrows arcing in a mixture of interest and worry. "Anything you need." One would have thought I'd offered him silver and gold to see the way his eyes sparkled.

I swallowed. "I have a problem," I struggled. "With Sorelli."

He nodded encouragingly so I told him all about Sorelli and Philippe. He urged the rest out of me--Sorelli and me, and that stupid figurine Darius has introduced to our lives. I felt on the verge of tears, but if Erik noticed, he did not make it known.

Instead, his eyes lit up as he understood the issue at hand and got to his feet. He gave my shoulder a quick pat and offered me a half-hearted smile. "What can _I_ do?" he said at last, twining his fingers together.

I laughed nervously. It was too easy to cast all my cares on Erik. Why was he such a good friend to me? What had I ever done for him? I took a deep breath. "The easiest solution is for Philippe to marry Sorelli," I choked. "I... sort of get the idea that such a thing would _please_ Philippe, but he clings to noble ideals and family honor." Erik continued to nod, but it was here I realized that I had no idea what I expected Erik to do.

I turned away and put my hands over my face. "I'm a fool, Erik. I'm such a complete fool. I don't know why I've come to you now. I guess with your Opera ghost routine, I've come to think of you as all-powerful." I laughed bitterly. "I don't suppose there's anything the Opera ghost could do in such a situation. Even if there were, Philippe doesn't believe in the ghost anyway. Or... in ghosts in general, it would seem. Damn, I am such a fool." I turned and headed toward the parlor, my mind on getting out of the cellar without letting Erik see the humiliation on my face.

"So Philippe doesn't believe in the Opera ghost, eh?" Erik said behind me. His voice revealed he was both amazed and insulted.

I turned around at that. "No," I said. I tried unsuccessfully to laugh. "He thought me nothing more than a superstitious Oriental." How shameful the word _Oriental_ suddenly felt. How stupid I was, indulging in my brief Persian fantasy. I was nothing more than a fool.

Erik laughed. "All the better. Good. I'm not sure the Opera ghost could be of much help to Philippe in the matter of marrying an Opera wench anyway," he said.

I nodded and slunk from the room. "I know," I said. "Sorry, Erik."

"Oh? Ho, dear what's this now?" Erik's hand upon my shoulder spun me around as I stepped into the corridor outside the music room. "What's the matter with you?" Erik fairly shook me. "Disappointed? Unhappy? _Stop that!_" He reached forward and grabbed my face by the cheeks in one bony hand and forced me to look him in the eye.

"Did I say I wouldn't help you? Didn't I say anything you need? Rasheed thinks Erik would go back on his word?" He shook my head left to right for me. "Absolutely not! What kind of a friend would Erik be to say no to his friend the one time he is asked for help? Nonsense!" He released me suddenly, threw my face back to me, really, and turned to pace back and forth the length of his room. "Doesn't believe in ghosts," he muttered. "We'll see about that!" He continued to mutter and pace another moment.

Suddenly he stopped and smacked his hands together with such force that I jumped.

While I stared at him in confusion, he slipped off his jacket and cast it to the organ bench. He resumed his pacing as he unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged out of it. After he threw the shirt on top of the jacket he turned and stood before me stripped to the waist in half-naked glory. He seemed to be waiting for a reaction, so I half-heartedly clapped my hands together.

"Very amusing, Daroga," he said dryly and folded his bony arms across his protruding ribcage. I couldn't help but gawk. My dear friend surely needed to eat more. I felt a twinge of guilt for my own self pity a moment earlier, and I resolved to take better care of Erik in the future. In the present, however, he glared playfully at me. "Enough. How is staring at me going to help your situation?"

I shrugged. "How is taking your clothes off supposed to help my situation?" It occurred to me, as a matter of fact, that keeping my _own_ clothes _on_ might have prevented this whole mess in the first place. I felt like crying.

But Erik's smile threatened to split his face.

"What?" I said. The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach lessened slightly looking at Erik's ridiculous grin. He really was very proud of whatever he'd thought up. I felt a smile creep to my lips. "What?" I repeated when he didn't answer.

He tore off his false eyebrows and moustache with a painful ripping sound, then wrapped his fist around his nose and pulled steadily until the thing came off so abruptly that it seemed unusual to have done so without the pop that accompanies the opening of champagne.

I laughed aloud, my troubles almost forgotten.

Erik danced up to me. "The _Opera_ ghost can't help you, no. But perhaps another ghost _can_." He whirled away and trotted to the wardrobe where he opened a drawer and began to paw through a selection false noses, eyebrows, moustaches and beards. "But how did he look, I wonder...."

"Who's that?"

"The late Comte Philibert de Chagny," he responded without looking up.

"Why--" I stuttered. "I have--well, I have absolutely no idea."

"Damn," he muttered. "One should suppose his sons resemble him...." He withdrew a blond hairpiece and frowned at it. "Yet one could be wrong." He looked thoughtful, placed the wig aside and fingered the noses carefully.

"What are you thinking, Erik?" Already my worry had faded to a faint memory; it was mere curiosity that drove me to ask.

Erik shrugged as he withdrew an aristocratic-looking nose. "I shall merely visit Philippe de Chagny and give him his father's blessing to marry the girl," he said simply. He replaced the nose and leaned close to inspect the others.

"It might work," I conceded. It was far better than anything I could have come up with alone. I edged toward the door, eager to put Erik's plan to the test.

"Of course it will, Daroga," he agreed, selecting another nose. He screwed up his eyes and inspected it carefully.

I began to pace.

Erik turned the prosthetic upside down and peered into the nostrils ridiculously. I felt something inside me becoming wildly impatient. It was a fine nose, wide and strong and turned up slightly at the end. He would look quite proper in it with the blond wig. He might easily pass for a member of the de Chagny household.

But back it went, and his dexterous fingers seized upon yet another. This one, he held to the light and turned left and right. Imagine a jeweler inspecting a precious stone. It was long and straight and certainly noble with delicate nostrils and a slight crevice between them, but back into the drawer it went nevertheless.

Erik hummed faintly as he fingered each of the remaining pieces in turn, lingering many moments over each.

I tapped my foot. I withdrew and replaced my watch twice. I cleared my throat. Coughed. Paced a bit more. At last I could take no more. "Erik," I cried, exasperated, "Just pick your damn nose and let's go!"

Erik turned to me, a large bulbous nose in his hand and his mouth open in an expression of utmost indignance. "The word is _choose_, Daroga. _Choose_. Or _select_. _Decide upon_, perhaps." He shook his head decidedly. "But not _pick._"

"Then _choose _already!" I fairly screamed at him.

He replaced the nose carefully in the velvet lined drawer. "_How_ long has the old fellow been dead? Since Raoul was a child, yes?" He frowned and put the blond wig and its matching eyebrows and moustache away as well. "That's at least twenty years...." He stood and pushed the drawer closed soundlessly. "I suppose those are the first things to go, aren't they?" He scratched his forehead and peeled a bit of spirit gum from the place where his left eyebrow had been. "I suppose this is the better look after all," he decided at last.

Bare-faced and bare-chested, he whipped a cloak about his shoulders, and started for the door.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** As we near the end of my retelling of Leroux's novel, I find myself craving your comments more and more, as I know that when it is over, there will be no more feedback until the next story. Please leave me your thoughts on this chapter, which, while not my absolute favorite, is certainly in my top five in this particular story. Thanks so much in advance, and please also check out the Erik plush production photos when you get time.


	55. To the de Chagny Estate

**Author's Note:** I would have very much liked to have been able to update mid-week this past week, but I worked 11-13 hour days every day. Fortunately, I'm off this entire week, so I do plan a couple of bonus posts. This one isn't very long, but there will be another following swiftly after it. In fact, there's a pretty good chance that if everyone is encouraging, I might be able to post daily this week. (Of course, that might get us to the end of the story, too....)

**Erik Plush Update:** They're FINISHED! All the Eriks are sewn and stuffed and waiting to be shipped. At present, they still need to have their color glossy hang-tag marking them as limited edition for the 100th anniversary of Leroux's novel attached. Then they ship to me. Shipping takes 2-3 days by air. I expect to start shipping them to pre-order customers the same day they arrive. I'll be ordering the boxes and packing material via internet tomorrow. How exciting!

**Humor Warning****:** This chapter is a bit of a break from the recent excessively silliness, but it has it's funny parts. As always, no eating or drinking.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything (except an over-active imagination).

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I followed Erik at a slow jog through the passageways with little regard for our direction. We emerged in some backstage ready room and he maneuvered me along unadorned back corridors until he found what--or rather _who_--he was looking for: Pierre.

He pulled his collar up to obscure the lower half of his face before he approached him, apparently still somewhat more reticent after that first occasion on which the boys had seen him noseless. I instantly regretted having hurried him so much that he had departed without a nose and wished that I had grabbed the one he had removed and cast to the organ. Meanwhile, Erik hid any shyness he had as he leaned he leaned low where Pierre crouched and whispered into the other sceneshifter's ear.

"What?" the other inquired, straightening. "It wasn't me this time, Erik. I learned my lesson the first time--" He fell silent as Erik's fingers pressed his lips.

"I said, 'Where is the horse?' Spare me suffering through hearing what you _haven't_ done with it. Where _have _you put it?" A moment of silence passed before shook Pierre lightly by the lapels and murmured roughly in his ear, "I'm not angry with you, man! I am simply in need of a horse!"

Pierre nodded slowly and began to lead the way.

Were we going to ride Cesar to the de Chagny estate? I shuddered at the thought of bumping along behind Erik who would no doubt insist upon holding the reins. No, it would not be a pleasant evening for either my posterior or the fellows opposite. But I was in luck. Along the way Pierre made a magnificent suggestion and located Jacques, to whom he spoke in low tones for a moment before the two announced they had a plan and dismissed Erik and me to wait outside.

The wind whipped icily about us. I found my Astrakhan hat in the pocket of my greatcoat and pulled it low around my ears. Erik, who was already wearing his hat, pulled his brim low and his collar higher still and appeared at once to be a man without a face. Moments later a brougham approached us at a steady trot with Jacques at the reins and Pierre beside him.

In a single bound Erik had the door open and was inside. I climbed up beside him quickly as I could and pulled the door closed. The carriage lurched as I did so and we were off to a bumpy but far more pleasant than anticipated ride to the home of my rival and Erik's escape. Erik opened the front window to ensure the boys knew the route. They did, they told him between the crass jokes they exchanged. Erik slid the window closed.

He was strangely silent most of the journey. Wordlessly, he handed me a piece of crumpled silk which I unfolded and found to be his Opera ghost mask. I stared questioningly at him, but he said nothing. Erik's continued silence had given the interior of our carriage the sanctity of a chapel, and I scarcely dared to speak. I whispered, "Why did you give this to me?" He indicated with a gesture that I should put it on, and I obeyed. "But why?" I whispered.

"It makes you invisible," he said almost silently. He withdrew a second mask, identical to the first, and tied it over his own face. He all but vanished into the darkness of the brougham at once; all but his bright reflective eyes which peered eerily at me from a faceless void. We said nothing more for the duration of our journey, I simply stared, entranced, at Erik's eyes.

After what seemed an eternity, the carriage slowed, stopped, lurched once, and stopped again. Erik slid open the front window. Up front the boys were chuckling quietly. At Erik's hiss they fell silent and Pierre's face appeared pressed against the window. He and Erik exchanged words that were nothing more than a series of s sounds. Erik snapped the window shut and pointed first at me and then at the door.

I obeyed, opening the door as quietly as I could.

We were outside the walls of the de Chagny estate. The trees within obscured the de Chagny mansion. I jumped to the ground and looked about. The world was somehow a very different place through the eyeholes of the black silk. I found my vision more focused, undistracted by the peripheral. I let my gaze wander from the street to the de Chagny wall; we were nowhere near its main gate. Erik landed lightly beside me and pointed. I closed the door carefully and followed in the direction he led.

He paused at the wall surrounding the estate and indicated with a gesture that we were to climb it. I caught his cloak in my hand and tugged him close putting his ear against the place where the mask covered my lips.

"Should I not approach by the front door? Present myself? Ask for the vicomte?"

Erik moved carefully to a place where a beam of moonlight shone through an open place in the tree canopy. He reached within his cloak, came up with nothing but a handful of his own ribcage and snorted with suppressed laughter. When he recovered he pantomimed to me and I obliged, withdrawing my watch from my waistcoat and holding it into the moonbeam. He tapped its face and shook his head vigorously. It was late. Too late? A feeling of guilt washed over me. Erik still apparently planned to appear to Comte Philippe to exonerate me, but I was too late to go to Raoul by means of the front door.

My mind raced. I would find a way to make it up to him. Surely there was another way. Somehow, I would find a way to visit the vicomte while Erik appeared to the comte. Such a thing could be done, certainly. The Persian was undoubtedly a resourceful fellow. If, to save the life of another he performed a bit of lock-picking or otherwise obtained illegal entry into the home of the man he intended to save, so much the better. "Apologies," I would tell Raoul in my heavily accented French. "I would have come by means of knocking on your door, and by daylight hours, but Erik watches my movements closely." Pause. Look around disturbedly. "It is possible he has followed me even now. It is why it is all the more urgent that you take your sweet Christine and leave immediately. Go now. Do not delay longer than the time it takes you to dress!" Yes. I would repair Erik's situation entirely this night. Poor Erik, my dear friend. He had done so much for me and expected nothing in return. I owed him at least that much.

Meanwhile, Erik was oblivious to the ramblings of my mind and undeterred by the late hour. He moved to the wall once again; I followed him.

I looked up the height of the wall and made a gesture of doubting my ability. Erik made a stirrup with his hands. I stepped into it, and found myself hoisted upward even as I reached for the top of the wall. Once atop it, I eased my legs to the inside and leaned back over, holding my arms out to Erik. He shook his head, backed away for a running start and threw himself to the top with a slight grunt. I marveled at his agility as I pointed my feet to the ground and let myself fall. Erik landed beside me as silently as a cat. I had an instant to admire him before he rose on his toes and sprinted soundlessly across the manicured lawns for the foot of the mansion. I imitated his motions and followed him as quietly as I could.

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**Shameless Begging:** Leroux fans probably know where this is going, don't you? Don't hate me; it's all Leroux's fault!


	56. Raoul de Chagny

**Author's Note:** Well, I don't have quite the hoped-for number of reviews for last chapter, but I'm blaming that on Thanksgiving and the fact that I made it a bit too short and am going ahead and posting this anyway. I think you guy'll like this one better. And maybe you'd also like a plush update?

**Erik Plush Update:** Glossy hang tags: 3 days to print, 1 day to attach and pack. Shipping: 3 days. Erik's arrive in: 7 days. If you want an Erik plush in the for the holidays and have not yet ordered, please consider ordering right away. Pre-orders will ship first, so no new orders will go out until ALL preorders have been handled--thus, if you need a plush by a particular date, please order before they arrive so yours can be part of the pre-order batch. I expect sales to pick up once they actually arrive here.

**Disclaimer:** Phantom of the Opera owns me, not the other way around.

**Humor Warning:** This one is funnier than the last, I think. I think it's just average for just anyone reading but might be funnier to really hardcore Leroux fans. Whatever type of fan you are, though, please continue to observe our humor-fic guidelines of not eating or drinking while reading. Thank you for your cooperation

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We crept silently about the perimeter of the looming castle-like structure, two figures in black cloaks and black masks. I wondered what might occur if we were apprehended, two Opera ghosts, far from the Opera, slinking around the de Chagny mansion but meaning no harm, honest officer! I trembled and shook my head hard to banish the thought. There would be no being apprehended tonight, for tonight must be successful at all costs, for the good of the futures of both of us.

Erik stopped and, distracted by my thoughts, I plowed blindly into him, throwing myself off balance. He said nothing, merely gripped me by the shoulders and held me until I was steady once again. I nodded my thanks.

Erik pointed up. Though he faced me, his voice came directly into my left ear, and I knew he made use of his ventriloquism. "First we determine which window leads to the sleeping chamber of Comte Philippe."

I nodded.

He led me carefully to a place where a conveniently placed trellis provided a place to climb and shoved my shoulder playfully. I shoved him back. His yellow eyes blinked at me in the darkness, and I marveled at all the things that can be exchanged between friends without words. As I wondered whether he sensed my gratitude as strongly as I sensed his loyalty, he leapt to the wall and began to climb, pushing vines aside as he went. He was as nimble as a ballerina and as confident as a primadonna. He scaled the wall as easily as he ran down the fragile bridges amid the rigging cords and flies at the Opera.

I sighed and followed him clumsily. In this situation, anyway, his slight weight was to his great advantage, though it might not be if we reached that balcony to find the Comte standing there, arms folded and expecting an explanation. Though I am no heavy and have always thought myself far more a lover than a fighter, I am also a bit more apt with my fists than Erik.

Fortunately, when we reached the balcony, there was no one on it. Erik struggled up first, kicking madly to get over the railing, then reached down to pull me upward as well. We stood together on the balcony looking into the lavishly decorated bedchamber that lay before us. I felt my inferiority at once and wondered whether Erik regretted sustaining my brother and me in our substandard little flat.

There was little time to dwell upon my insecurities, however, for a moment later the young vicomte entered the room to go about his readying for sleep. I tugged at Erik's collar. Wrong sleeping chamber. Time to go. Late as it was, could we get to the Comte in time? I scanned the side of the building for the easiest route to the next bedroom.

Erik watched the boy seemingly curiously for many moments. Though I could not see the expression his mask covered, I was sure he was contemplating the boy as his last hope for freedom. I made up my mind to talk to the boy at once.

"Erik," I interrupted him. "Go on to the Comte's room. Leave me to talk to Raoul."

Erik nodded but did not move away from the window. "Are you going to climb inside?" he asked me. "Do you suppose it's locked?" He put his hands upon the frame of the window as though to attempt to open it.

"Erik, wait!" I hissed. "Don't let him see you!" I untied the mask from my face and tucked it into my right pocket. It was one thing for Erik to turn up on the balcony in a mask; it was quite another for the Persian to be wearing one; how would I explain that? I adjusted my hat and my collar and focused on the way in which my mother carefully articulated multi-syllabic words. I could do this, I told myself. I rubbed the palms of my hands together. I was ready. I moved to Erik's side and gave him a gentle shove. "Go on," I whispered. "I can handle it.

Erik nodded and took a step toward the wall.

All at once the light was extinguished in the room and we could see nothing. "Damn," I muttered. "Now what?"

I heard Erik shrug in the darkness. "You might try knocking," he suggested.

I sighed heavily. "I don't know, Erik. Maybe I should come back in the morning. He can still flee with Christine before the performance rather than after."

"He's still in there," Erik insisted. "We might at least _try_ knocking."

"Oh, yes. Splendid idea. Absolutely. Yes, knock. The vicomte will be so pleased to greet us in his bedclothes."

"You're right," he conceded after a long moment. "Let us find the comte at once. You may certainly speak to young Raoul in the morning."

Oh, would that we would have left just then! But no! Already we were trapped within our fate! Before we could make more than a step's progress, a voice from within shouted something angry and convoluted. Erik stepped closer to the door and pressed his masked face against the glass. I did the same. The light snapped on and I leapt away from the door to press myself against the wall. Erik remained where he was.

"Good Lord," he murmured. "Whatever is the boy doing?"

"Why?" I asked from my place against the wall amongst the vines from the trellis.

"He's... why, _now_ he's looking beneath his bed! But a moment ago he was stalking about the room and babbling to himself. Oh dear, Daroga. This will not do. The boy has gone half mad. Can we trust him to care for innocent Christine?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Erik. Lots of folks talk to themselves. Why just—" I fell silent. The light had disappeared once again. "What the hell?" I moved back to the Erik's side by the door.

"How odd," Erik mused.

He leaned forward, listening intently.

"Yes," he said aloud, too loudly, so loudly that one within could certainly hear him.

"Hush, Erik!" I cried and leapt back against the wall to hide once again.

"He knows I am here!" he said in soft wonder. "Perhaps I should simply let him see me," he mused. "Let him see Erik! Put the fear of Erik into his heart and he shall leave at once to go and find Christine and take her away without a word from the Persian. On the other hand, is it necessary to frighten him? Perhaps Erik was merely an over-protective fatherly vocal instructor who now offers his blessing and encourages the young man to run away with her before his elder brother intervenes? Ah, no matter." And here he raised his voice tremendously. "Yes, it is I! Raoul le Vicomte de Chagny, Erik wishes to speak with you!"

"For God's sake, Erik, shut up!" I hissed.

"He said, 'Erik, is it you?' so I answered him. Hush now, Daroga! Let us see what the boy has to say!"

Dread seized me. "No," I told him. "That's a bad idea. For heaven's sake, let us simply depart at once!" I dared to step out from my hiding place to grab him by his cloak. I pulled him desperately, but despite his slight weight I could not budge him. "Oh, but do hush, Erik!" I begged reaching around to place my hand over his masked mouth.

"Hide, Daroga!" he said suddenly. He put his hand on my chest and gave me a hearty shove away from him, then he backed up three, four, five paces to the edge of the balcony. "Hush. Let Erik speak with Raoul de Chagny!"

I flung myself back against the wall just as the boy threw open the glass doors to look about. A moment later, apparently satisfied that we were not there, he stepped back inside and closed the door behind him.

"What the hell?" I said. "I though you wanted to—"

Erik made a hissing sound between his lips that clearly meant to be silent. "My God," he whispered, moving slowly and with extreme caution toward the trellis by whence we'd come. "My God, Daroga, he has his revolver in hand!"

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**Shameless Begging:** I'd love to have a few extra reviews to be thankful for on Thursday... Whatdaya say? PS: The next chapter is ready, so the more encouragement I get, the greater chance there is of another chapter soon! ::hint hint hint::


	57. The first tragedy

**Author's Note:** Well, I hope everyone had a wonderful Thursday/Thanksgiving. I'm sad that my week off is winding down, but as I also noticed that I was far less productive than I had hoped to be this week, maybe a week off like that isn't such a good idea. Go figure. All the same, despite my lack of productivity in other areas, I did manage to get quite a bit accomplished on this story. I'm several chapters ahead of what I'm posting, so fear not--posts will be quick and often. Quick plush update as well: They have not yet arrived, but we just ordered packing materials: 100 boxes or so. I'll start printing mailing labels for the pre-orders on probably Sunday. When the Eriks arrive, we'll ship them most immediately. My apologies for the lateness of Erik--there was another glossy hangtag hold up, but it's all worked out now. Just one more thing to be thankful for. Don't worry, we'll still make our holiday deadline!

**Humor Warning:** This chapter... is rather less funny than some of the others. That's not to say it doesn't have it's funny bits. It does. So extreme caution is still encouraged.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _The Phantom of the Opera_. I _do_, however, own a pistol. Don't worry. I'm more careful than Raoul.

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"What? He has his—_What?_" My mind caught up with my ears and I froze for an instant. Erik, too, seemed immobile. Then, just as I found my wits and began to scramble toward the wall, grabbing at Erik's arm as I went, a terrible sound split the night with a blast and a crash. I grabbed the latticework and prepared to scramble downward, leaping to the ground if need be. "Erik?" I attempted to calm myself with his near presence.

"Daroga." His voice came from above me, near the edge of the balcony. It was distant, hollow, and weak.

"Erik?" I squinted in his direction in the darkness. Beyond the balcony, lights came on inside the bedchamber, enabling me to see Erik's silhouette near the edge. I caught my breath. There was not time enough for him to climb over the railing to the trellice. He glanced around frantically, then reached up to grab hold of a drainpipe just above his head. With an agonizing grunt he heaved himself upward to a sloping roof. I scrambled back up the lattice rapidly and heaved myself toward the roof as well. I reached him just as the glass door between the bedchamber and the balcony opened.

The light below me was blinding and the space around me so dark that I could not see Erik at all. I put my hands out, searching, groping for him in the darkness. When I laid my hands upon him, I found him to be trembling as though in fear. Before I could say a word to reassure him, however, I heard voices from within. All a sudden, the boy came onto the balcony.

"Oh!" he fairly shouted. "Oh! _Blood!_"

I felt cold as my own blood rushed away from my extremities. _Erik's_ blood? I wrapped an arm around my shivering friend and tried to ignore the sick feeling that flooded through me.

"Blood!" the boy shouted again below me. "Here! There! More blood! So much the better! A ghost who bleeds is less dangerous!" And the boy laughed. He _laughed!_ I gripped my shuddering Erik more tightly. "Hang on," I whispered, almost inaudibly in his ear. "You're all right, you'll be all right."

He leaned against me, breathing heavily.

Below us, Comte Philippe shook his younger brother and called his name repeatedly as though to wake him.

"I'm not asleep! Look! You can see the blood like anyone else. I might have thought I was asleep, because I saw a couple of golden eyes, like stars, and I shot at them. But there's blood! They were Erik's eyes, Philippe! And this is Erik's blood!"

_Erik's blood!_ I trembled with my shuddering friend. "Easy," I whispered, though whether for his benefit or mine I was no longer sure.

"Maybe I was wrong to shoot," the boy suddenly said in a very worried tone. My eyes rolled of their own volition in my head. He was certainly wrong to shoot, as Erik might be dying here in my arms! What a tragedy that would be if to avoid a marriage and pair up a young couple Erik had sacrificed his life. What an absolute waste. "Christine may not forgive me for it," the boy continued, and I hoped she wouldn't. "None of this would have happened if I had taken the precaution of lowering the window curtain when I went to sleep," he finished feebly.

The Comte began trying once again to wake his brother, who complained at once that it would be better if he would help him find the ghost. For, he said again "a ghost that _bleeds_ can be found!"

Indeed! Erik, Erik, we might be found! I felt frantic enough to cry, and the feeling intensified a moment later when the servant brought a very bright lamp and came out the door, following young Raoul's trail of blood.

"It's true, sir," the servant said. I scrambled backward on the roof dragging Erik with me so that we might escape the light. I replaced the black mask from my pocket over my face.

The voices below us continued. "Here, sir..."

"On the drainpipe..."

"Blood! Still more blood! Yes!"

"My friend," the voice of the elder brother said condescendingly, "you have drawn upon a cat."

The younger brother sighed heavily. "The trouble is that is actually quite possible. With Erik one never knows." He babbled on for a few moments about Erik and cats but I couldn't listen, occupied as I was. Erik himself moaned softly at my side.

I put a hand over his masked mouth and whispered, "Not yet, not yet, not yet."

"Who is Erik?" the Comte asked in a commanding voice.

"He is my rival, and if he is not dead, I'll be sorry!" impetuous Raoul responded defiantly. This was a far cry from his Christine-may-not-forgive-me of a few moments earlier and it took every bit of self-restraint I possessed not to throw myself upon him from the roof and strangle him with my bare hands.

Suddenly, the door slammed shut and their voices became muffled.

"All right, it's safer now," I murmured.

"Safe, hell, Daroga," Erik ground out through clenched teeth. "I'm _bleeding._"

"I know, I know." I passed my hands frantically over him. "Where?"

He lifted one of my hands with one of his and placed it upon a hot sticky place.

"Oh, God," I moaned.

"Please," he told me "It is I who have been shot."

"Yes. Yes. Well, how bad is it? Are you able to climb back down in that condition?"

He was silent a moment and I feared he had died suddenly without warning. Then he laughed halfheartedly. "If not, in any case I am certainly capable of _falling_ back down in this condition."

I tried to laugh, to reassure him that everything would be fine, but I could not. I wrapped my arms around him and held on for a moment before I helped him to the edge of the roof. Slowly, deliberately, I lowered myself onto the trellis and began to back down, coaxing Erik gently with words and occasional tugs. I positioned myself beneath him fearful he might suddenly fall.

The climb was an eternity of slow, careful, backward movement devoid of all the amusement and optimism we had felt in climbing up. Somehow, we reached the ground at last--and just in time, too! As Erik's feet reached the earth, his knees buckled and he sank to the ground. I crouched beside him, leaned his body against mine and held him tightly. "You'll be fine," I said aloud, more to reassure myself.

"We shall see," he groaned. Then after a few moments of labored breathing: "Let's get out of here!"

I half-dragged, half-carried him to the gate of the wall that surrounded the de Chagny estate as it would surely be impossible for him to climb back over the wall in this condition. We found ourselves an excruciating distance from where Pierre had parked, but what else could we do under the circumstances? He fell nearly half a dozen times along the way back so that by the time we reached the carriage we were a muddy, bloody mess. The boys were in back playing cards by the light of the lantern when we arrived. They greeted us goodnaturedly when I threw open the door, but an instant later their faces fell as they noticed the expression upon mine as I struggled to lift Erik into the coach. He hung upon me and complained that it was too difficult, never mind, leave him where he was, for it was too late anyway. I ignored his ridiculous request and rearranged his limbs so that I could boost him up from behind. Meanwhile, I shouted to the boys to get up front, it was time to go. They obeyed instantly. Erik crumpled as I pushed him upward; he fell back upon me. In desperation I climbed into the carriage and pulled him by both arms. He let out a murderous scream then went eerily silent.

"What the hell—?" Pierre called to me from the front through the window.

I slammed the door of the coach closed. "Just _drive_!" I shouted and Pierre lashed the horse.

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**Shameless Begging:** Oh please tell me you're not going to read all that and then just go away and read something else. Come on people!! I need feedback!! (And to my dear friend IamthePhantomoftheOpera, I'm sorry... I really meant to give you a less suspenseful ending, but this is just where the scene change seemed to occur. Don't worry. I'll put the next chapter up this afternoon or tomorrow night assuming we're still on schedule.)


	58. To the Opera

**Author's Note:** Well, we're still on schedule. You guys have been absolutely GREAT! Keep the feedback coming! The more encouragement I get, the faster I post. The faster I post, the sooner you get to see what _really_ happened at the end of POTO.

**Humor Warning:** 95% of this chapter is _not funny_. This means that the few funny things will jump out at you unexpectedly from nowhere. That makes this chapter far more dangerous than those that came before it. I would avoid even small coffee breaks as choking and computer spitting might occur.

**Disclaimer:** Wow! Hey! Whoa! Whew! (Oh wait... that's EXclaiming, isn't it?)

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The carriage lurched forward as the horse sprang from a standstill to a canter almost immediately.

"What the hell happened?" Jacques's face was pressed against the little window. When I did not answer he tried again. "Is something _wrong_?

"Yes!" I yelped. "Erik's been _shot_!"

"Hush, Daroga. Don't _tell_ anyone," Erik whispered from where he leaned against the curtained window.

I ignored him. "We need to get to the hospital," I yelled. "Do you hear? _Hospital!_"

"No," Erik groaned.

I moved closer but ignored his request. "Nonsense, Erik. You need a doctor."

"No," he said still more faintly than before.

I said nothing. I regarded his silk-covered features in the dark. His usually bright eyes were mere slits dimly reflecting a sickly yellow back at me. He blinked once, twice, kept his eyes closed. He seemed so much smaller and frailer than usual with his masked forehead resting against the wall of the coach, his shoulders slumped and arms hanging limply. I reached out, took him by the shoulder, and turned his face toward mine; he swayed as though about to swoon, and I pulled him against me. "You'll be fine as soon as we find a doctor."

"No." I sensed more than heard his voice. His weight became heavier against me and all at once he was limp in my arms. I tore off my own mask and his so we could see one another's faces, just in case.

He whimpered as I tugged at his mask, but I tore it off all the same. "Daroga..." he whispered. His bony hand stretched out and covered his face entirely. I pushed it away and ran my hands over his face. His forehead was moist and clammy. I found my handkerchief and mopped his brow, pushing his scraggly hair back from his face as I did so.

He fought to cover his face, but I held his hands down. "Don't look, Daroga," he whispered inanely. I did the opposite. I stared into his eyes, memorized his features, burned them into my mind.

He shivered tremendously so I struggled out of my cloak and wrapped it around him.

He closed his eyes. "Take care of mother for me."

I shook him hard then. "Damn it, Erik, you'll take care of her yourself!" I should not have yelled at him, but in my terror and frustration, I lost control.

Erik limply waited for me to regain control. Then he rasped, "At the flat... in my room... inside the wardrobe... behind... the codpiece... under... the women's undergarments..."

_Codpiece?_ I blinked. _Women's undergarments_?

But Erik continued: "You will find... my will." He drew a deep breath, shuddered with the exertion and began again. "This is... entirely unexpected. I did not expect... mother would outlive me.... All goes to you.... Take care of mother.... Poor mother! She will be so unhappy." His breathing became labored after the effort of this monologue.

"No, Erik--" I tried, but he found the strength to raise his hand and put his fingers over my lips.

"If you are not too extravagant, it will sustain you." He closed his eyes and panted, "My friend...."

"You're not dying, Erik," I insisted. He wasn't listening.

"Oh, Rasheed! Forgive me!"

"You're speaking nonsense, Erik. There is nothing to forgive!"

He took my hand in his and I had to lean close to hear him. "You have... always been... the most faithful... of friends. How lonely... I would have been... all these years. How grateful... I have always been... that you were so kind... to me."

_He_ was grateful? _He_ would have been lonely? "No, Erik!" I choked back a sob. I could not even respond.

"How I envied you," he said. How ridiculous, I thought. I struggled to silence him so I could tell him _my_ truth, but he simply would _not shut up_. "Erik is... nothing more... than the least... of all... his personae." He closed his eyes.

I got my emotions under control enough to tell him that no, _I _had envied _him,_ and it was _I_ who had benefited from our friendship, that he was certainly the _greatest_ man I know. But there was nothing at all to say, for his consciousness was gone when he closed his eyes.

I held my hand before his face to assure myself his breath had not stopped, then took advantage of his unconsciousness to pound on the front of the carriage and call to the boys up front to confirm we were still en route to the hospital. Jacques's face appeared close to the window, confirmed the name of the place and the name of the street.

We were speeding down a route that promised to take us directly past the Opera, when Erik regained consciousness. When his eyes opened I made the mistake of telling him not to worry, we would be to the hospital shortly. He struggled out of my arms, pounded on the window and bellowed at Pierre and Jacques, "To the Opera! _To. The. Opera,_" he insisted in a loud, clear, commanding tone.

I raked my fingers through my hair in desperation.

"Change of plans?" Jacques called back to me.

"No!" I yelped. My voice cracked.

"To the Opera," Erik stated again, calmly and far more in control than I.

"Hospital!" I screeched.

"I'll give you two a moment to discuss this."

"No," I shouted. "He's been _shot_. Clearly he needs to go to the hospital!"

"But I _choose_ not to." From his tone one would never have ascertained his condition.

"He's got a point, Rasheed," Jacques conceded.

"No!" I bawled. "He's _cert_ainly _damn_ably de_lir_ious. He's--"

Erik grabbed me by the collar.

"_No,_" he told me firmly.

Truth be told, in that instant he had already won. "Erik," I pleaded uselessly. "Please let us take you to a doctor!"

"Opera coming up," Jacques warned. "Need a decision pretty quickly!"

Erik sat back and folded his arms confidently. _Defiantly_.

I was marveling at his apparent recovery and debating whether to argue with him further when he suddenly crumpled forward and nearly tumbled from his seat. I gathered him up carefully and held him in my arms once again.

As I lifted him, my ear came near his mouth and when the two were close he hissed, "Opera!" into my ear once again.

"No," I tried to say. My lips moved, but no sound came forth. I have never really been able to say no to Erik. His eyes fluttered open and shut at me. Could I refuse the wishes of what might be a _dying_ man?

"Damn it all," I grumbled blinking back tears. "Opera!" I cried. Pierre pulled up the reins so abruptly the horse protested with a loud whinny and Erik and I were thrown against the front of the coach.

We took Erik through the Rue Scribe entrance. I sent Pierre to the flat for my brother and persuaded Jacques to walk with me to the lake house. It was a good thing, too, as we had to carry Erik most of the way. Our progress was so slow that by the time we arrived at the lake house I heard voices behind us and turned to discover Pierre and Darius arriving as well.

We carried Erik inside, dumped him upon the divan and peeled his cloak off. I nearly swooned at all the blood. "What _happened_?" Darius asked.

"Raoul de Chagny shot him," I said.

Darius gaped at me.

"And he wouldn't let us take him to a doctor."

Darius knelt beside me and shrugged. "Suppose he had," he said. "What would a doctor do? Dig out the bullet, stop the bleeding, kill the pain?"

I nodded.

My brother began to poke around in the hole on Erik's shoulder. Erik let out a groan that quickly became an almost-scream. He raked at Darius with his free arm and it broke my heart to hold him down.

"Get him a drink," Darius ordered me. I moved mechanically to the kitchen, gathered up a collection of bottles and wandered back. Darius selected a bottle, poured a generous amount down Erik's throat and the rest into the wound. Erik yelped in pain and tried to leap up. I put my palm on his forehead, pushed him downward and held another bottle to his lips until a stupid grin indicated he was inebriated enough to feel little or nothing. I put the bottle to my own lips for a long moment.

Darius announced that the bullet must have gone in and back out again. I looked at the ragged tear in Erik's shoulder; it continued to ooze blood, which, I noticed with a start, was seeping into the divan. If Erik lived, he would murder us for that when he recovered. Meanwhile, Darius disappeared for a moment and reappeared tearing something white into long strips which he then began to wrap around Erik's arm, chest, and shoulder.

"What the hell?" I slurred. "That's his best shirt!"

Darius shrugged, tied off the bandages and indicated he would stay the night. Erik drooled. I took another long swing from the bottle.

Darius disappeared down the hall.

I heard a strange sound and turned to look at Erik, but he was slobbering silently. I looked all about me but could not find the source of the sound. It took me several moments to realize that I was sobbing.

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**Shameless Begging: **As usual, the more reviews, the faster the update. No kidding. Haven't you noticed the pattern? Oh yeah... and special thanks to Madame Faust for helping me work out the details of what's about to happen next because without what happens next solid in my mind, I'd have been afraid to post too far ahead. Anyway... The WHOLE rest of the story is about 95% done--all that's left is some minor editing--so I can post as often as I am encouraged to. Let's get this thing DONE!


	59. A Night at the Opera

**Author's Note:** At this rate, I daresay we'll have this finished before the end of the semester. I'd say there are roughly 10 more posts to go. This can take 10 days or 10 weeks, depending on how you want me to handle it. Please do let me know in your reviews. Thanks!

**Humor Warning:** Special thanks to all those who actually managed to find last chapter funny--because I really DID intend it to be funny, in and around all the sad. In fact, when I re-read it now, even the sad parts are funny as Erik is being so melodramatic. This chapter is completely different, so I hope there are a few of you out there who find this one amusing too. Enjoy! (carefully)

I have rather decided after last chapter that I far prefer exclaiming to disclaiming, so... NO! I DON'T OWN IT!  


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I spent the morning, the afternoon, and the early evening watching over Erik. The boys had taken up a collection of pain remedies, so the kitchen table was littered with glass bottles and vials in a variety of colors. We had everything from chlorodyne to opium and a young fellow named Yves had offered up a bit of morphine as well. Mostly, I plied Erik with laudanum and he seemed content with the result, at least at first. He was mostly muzzy but otherwise his usual self. I dared to think that if I could keep him calm until he was stable, then get him out of the Opera--hell, out of Paris altogether!--he might just recover nicely.

As the time neared for _Faust_, however, he became agitated.

"I can't remember how things ended last night," he fretted. "Did you get to talk to Raoul de Chagny or not?"

I could not keep the sarcasm from my response. "Did I _talk_ to him? Do you mean before or after he shot you, Erik? No, of course I didn't talk to him! I was too busy hiding on the roof with you!"

He sighed. "We still have both our predicaments then, yes?"

I groaned. "Yes. Indeed. We still have both those predicaments. And I seem to remember something else we have to worry about as well. What could that be? Oh yes! I remember! _The hole in your left shoulder_! I'm guessing having the Vicomte shoot you was _not_ part of your grand plan."

"Christine mustn't know," he said at once. "She would be dreadfully upset with the boy. She certainly wouldn't run away with him after that." He shuddered. "Worse still, she would likely come down here and insist upon _caring_ for me until it is healed. I'm not entirely sure I could survive that." I turned away. I didn't find that amusing in the least. "I daresay," he continued, "we shall have to improvise some due to this setback. I shan't be able to participate as fully as I had hoped. Come. Let's make plan."

"The _plan_ is you go to a hospital. I respected your wishes last night; now it's time for you to respect mine."

"Tonight, you shall go above and watch the performance of _Faust_. I regret I shall not be able to join you; it is a long climb up, you know."

"We'll carry you up, Erik, if only you'll let me take you--"

"No, no. There is no need to carry me to _Faust_. I have heard it sung before. But do go and watch to ensure that Raoul de Chagny keeps his word to Christine Daae. Recall he promised to carry her off even if she resisted, yes?"

"Yes, Erik, but--"

"So I need you to verify that."

"We can send Darius to verify that, Erik."

"I've asked Darius to observe from the wings. It is _you_ I want in our box."

"But Erik, I don't want--"

"Could you..." he exhaled sharply and put his right hand upon his left shoulder "get me a bit more of that... there?" He nodded at vial upon the table and smiled soberly at me. "It's wearing off."

"But, Erik, you just took--" I was cut off by his sharp cry of pain. "Certainly," I conceded at once.

"I don't want her changing her mind, pulling any of her little tricks, Daroga," he continued after a taking a dose without measuring. "Not tonight. No, she must elope with the Vicomte de Chagny. After she's married, if she wishes to visit I am sure it can be arranged, but not _now_. Certainly not _tonight_. Can't take the risk that she tries to marry herself off to me again, can we?" Here he closed his eyes. I waited, expecting him to say something more, but when his lips parted again no sound came from them save a deep inhale.

I crept out of the room as Erik snored softly behind me. None of her little tricks, I reflected. No changing her mind. When the appointed time came I slunk above, desperately wishing to remain down below.

All was quiet in the amphitheatre, so I avoided it. Naturally the backstage area bustled as usual, but I avoided that, too. I had no time for playing Persian with the shade in the felt hat who was (still) excessively suspicious of me from all my creeping around. I found my way to the main foyer where rumors flew about the item L'Epoque had published that morning revealing that Christine Daae and Raoul de Chagny were formally engaged. Had Raoul dared to release that information officially, I wondered, or was it mere gossip? According to the crowds that circulated that evening, the article had gone so far as to state that Opera gossip said that Philippe intended to stop the wedding. It went a step further, too, commenting that although the brothers were close, Philippe was mistaken if he thought that would triumph over true love. A very bold move in any case, but especially for young Raoul if it appeared with his consent.

But speaking of young Raoul, where _was_ he? Perhaps the couple was entirely gone already with his love! I crept outside to look about and found the Comte's coach parked outside, its coachman remaining in his seat, the Comte no where to be seen. I wondered whether he was within the coach or already within the Opera. I ducked back inside to look for him.

In passing a mirrored surface I became concerned about being recognized as the Persian in my Astrakhan hat, so I slipped into the cloakroom to exchange it for a plain black felt hat rather similar to the one my rival the shade generally wore. I borrowed a scarf from the cloakroom as well and completely obscured my face before I rushed back outside. By this time, Carlotta's carriage had arrived. I took it as a good sign--if Carlotta was back, rumors must be out that Christine Daae was leaving.

Or perhaps she was already gone. I glanced at the Comte's carriage. Was he too late to stop his brother? Were they already gone? Was I snooping about needlessly after a vicomte and a singer already eloped when I could have been tending to Erik?

I fought the temptation to rush below. When I'd finally left him, he had been sitting quite comfortably in his favorite chair, his eyes glazed, his face blank except for a mild grin that told me the morphine--toward the late afternoon he'd begun insisting the laudanum was ineffective--was more than sufficient. Meanwhile, La Sorelli's carriage arrived. I hid lest she recognize me. While Sorelli was escorted inside, a sort of berlin pulled up drawn by two sturdy horses. No one emerged.

I floated down to stand beside it and looked carefully about. Neither door opened, though there seemed to be no one inside. Murmurs of others going by indicated the berlin was hired by the Vicomte de Chagny. I considered that a mysterious coach with no one inside seemed a very Erik-like trick and I wondered if the Vicomte de Chagny were not a force to be reckoned with. Perhaps I had underestimated him. Perhaps he would escape with his Christine easily, and all Erik's worry was for naught. I paced about a bit more in the cold air then at last relented and went inside.

I found my way back to the cloakroom surreptitiously, returned the borrowed items and reclaimed my Astrakhan cap without detection, then made my way by means of the secret route Erik had shown me long ago to a column that was the pillar of box five. I climbed out and slipped into what was commonly known to be the Opera ghost's seat. I wondered if anyone would think to look at the ghost's box this evening. If they did, I thought for a moment, I'd be in certain trouble for sure. Then I remembered the silk mask in my pocket and pulled it out.

The slight of it sent me to sniffling back tears once again; would this be a token of remembrance of the night that led to Erik's death? I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand, found my handkerchief, blew my nose, covered my face and sobbed quietly a moment. Then I blew my nose again and forced myself to put the mask on, painful though it was.

Amazing thing, that black silk mask. I understood suddenly why Erik wore it. It not only disguised the features and made one invisible in the dark. It also imbued the wearer with a security and almost, I daresay even a sense invincibility. I no longer worried whether I would be seen. I knew I possessed the resources to disappear before anyone could apprehend me!

Safe in the Opera ghost's mask, I scanned the other boxes and quickly located Comte Philippe sitting alone in his. I could feel no more resentment towards him from that point forward, for he appeared to be a man entirely broken, staring towards the stage, seemingly seeing nothing. But _where was his brother_?

Gone? Eloped with the dancer, if I have any luck in this world. Perhaps that berlin out front with all the people around it murmuring that it was hired by the Vicomte de Chagny was really a decoy designed to delay his elder brother! But I would bide my time. I would not be too hasty in rushing below to shout the good news. Erik would want certainty, not conjecture. I settled back into my chair for a long and lonely night at the Opera.

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**Shameless Begging:** I don't guess I actually have to beg here anymore, right? A certain group of you have been faithfully reviewing regularly and another group has been commenting whenever things get particularly exciting. Please do keep the reviews coming, though, as the faster folks review, the faster I feel like I can post again. The next chapter is ALMOST ready and I don't have plans for today, so I'm frantically editing it just in case it needs to post later today. Shall we set a new record for most posts in a 24 hour period, eh? Please do let me know whether you'd like me to post once or twice a week so we have 5-10 weeks together, or whether you'd rather just get the end of the story as soon as possible and I'll try to comply with whichever side gets the most votes.


	60. A Safety Pin!

**Author's Note****:** Well, the votes are pretty much 50/50 on post daily or almost daily vs. post weekly, so until we get some tie-breaker votes, I'm going to post twice a week. (I also like to hold out for those 10 reviews because you all have spoiled me so much that I can't bear not to have feedback. Anyway, here's the next portion. I hope you enjoy it.

**Exclaimer/Disclaimer****:** I! don't! own! it!

**Humor Warning****: **The stuff that's funny in this chapter can mostly be attributed to Leroux rather than to me, but funny is funny. I have placed this warning here and am not responsible for what might happen if you happen to choke to death while trying to eat and read and laugh at the same time, so if that occurs, you or your heirs might consider suing the estate and progeny of Gaston Leroux.

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Christine Daae appeared on stage to sparse applause. Truth be told, she was received, downright _coldly_. Opera crowds are so fickle. But if Daae was on stage, _where was the vicomte_?

Indeed it must have been what Daae was wondering--or perhaps she wondered instead where was Erik? Whatever the case, she was floundering. She sang not as well as she did before she encountered Erik. She was not a tenth of what she had been the night of her first triumph. And she got worse and worse as the evening progressed.

I watched her but I scarcely listened to note she sang such was my distraction in maddeningly trying to discern whether her eyes were focused on Comte Philippe in his box or scanning the crowd for Raoul. The majority of the time, though, they seemed to be darting about the wings--looking for Erik, I thought at the time.

Presently Carlotta appeared and I expected poor Christine to burst into tears and flee the stage entirely. But she didn't. She raised her eyes and met those of the diva who had scarcely entered her box, a sneer upon her pretty features, and at once Daae stood taller and her voice soared as it had when she and Erik were at their peak. I grinned in spite of myself. I glanced back to Carlotta, whose eyes narrowed in jealousy. I watched the ladies shoot daggers at one another with glares until some motion below me drew my attention at once.

_There_ he was! There, at last! Raoul de Chagny! He had taken a seat in the center of the auditorium and now he rose from it and stood standing stock still staring at the diva in the center of the stage. She held out her arms, and anyone present might have believed she held them out to Raoul....

The amphitheatre went black and commotion ensued. It started as a murmur but had become a dull roar by the time the lights suddenly illuminated once again. I was already on my feet and to the door of the box by that time.

Yes, years of anticipating Erik's tricks prompted me to action, though I knew through and through that it could not possibly be Erik's work, for Erik was down below, intoxicated with the numbness of morphine, unless--God forbid!--it had worn off in which case he was suffering mightily. In any case, however, he wasn't lurking about and shutting off the gas. But someone was, and who it was I was bound to determine.

It could not be the others, no. What prank would the others pull in Erik's absence, and for what purpose? The managers, while not exactly compliant with our requests, had not been too much a bother, and there was no reason to play tricks on the audience. For a instant I suspected Raoul de Chagny. But it never occurred to me to suspect Christine Daae, not even when the lights came up once again amid hushed murmurs of the ghost, and her disappearance became evident.

I made my way to the backstage area at a run with a complete disregard for the managers and the shade and all else who might question my motives. I questioned Charles forcefully, pinned Michel against a wall, raised my voice harshly to Jean-Claude, shook François until he whimpered and nearly tore the lapels of Benoît before I gave up on the sceneshifters and ran from backstage to the administrative offices.

Moncharmin and Firmin were arguing within. The secretary, Rémy stood outside knocking upon the door repeatedly, a disturbed expression upon his face. The door opened so suddenly that I hadn't an instant to hide. All the same, it didn't seem to matter for when Monsieur Moncharmin opened the door, he was so upset he seemed not to see me, or truly see Rémy for that matter. "Do you have a safety pin?" he yelled.

"No," said Rémy, and Moncharmin started to close the door in his face.

"Then get the hell out of here!"

Poor Rémy opened his mouth to say something but hadn't the chance. Meanwhile, I stuck my hand in my pocket. Erik and I nearly always carried safety pins. They could be used for such a great number of things such as picking locks in addition to attaching things to one another. One ought never try to mount a scam of any variety without at least half a dozen safety pins.

"A safety pin!" the manager bellowed, his face turning purple and his eyes popping. I held one of mine out to Rémy at the length of my arm and dared to step closer. "Get me a safety pin at once!" I handed it to him and he closed the door in Rémy's face without another word. I shrugged and hurried off. I hadn't the time to wait for it to be returned, for I needed to find Christine Daaé! Wouldn't it be amusing, I thought, if she was within that office at that very moment? I snickered to think that perhaps her disappearance was as simple as a costuming problem that could be solved with a safety pin. I almost turned back to inquire, but reminded myself that it was not to the managers that she would have gone but to a seamstress.

I went to her dressing room next, just to be certain she was not there waiting for either Raoul or Erik to come to her. I found the door unlocked and her clothing strewn about. A large valise contained some items that she might have taken if she fled with Raoul, while a smaller one contained other clothing I expected she would not take to run away with a nobleman. Perhaps she was deciding which man she would run away with and what she would take? In any event, she had apparently left without any of it, unless she was still here. I pushed open the trick mirror Erik had installed and looked up and down the corridor. No Christine. I ran a short length of the corridor, stopped and called her name. No response but an echo. I hurried back to the mirror, through her dressing room and back to the Opera proper.

I ducked into the administrative hallway once again. Mercier was wandering down the hallway at a snail's pace. I overtook him at a run. As I passed by I noticed something in his hand that made me laugh aloud despite all else. Can the whole of the Opera's administration have discovered the tremendous handiness of safety pins simultaneously? But there was no time for such things. In a moment, I found myself once again under the light from the stage.

I suspected that Christine's disappearance could be attributed to Raoul, that they had rushed away from the Opera in fear of Erik. No, that isn't true exactly. I _hoped _that Christine's disappearance could be attributed to Raoul. I hoped it so strongly that I began to convince myself that it were possible. Raoul's standing up was his signal to Christine that it was time to go. Perhaps he had paid someone to cut the lights, he stood in anticipation of the planned event and rushed to the stage to abduct her as soon as the theatre was in darkness. But the lights were out for mere seconds, and Raoul's seat was in the center of a row. He could not have reached the stage in the time the lights were out, let alone take Christine and leave the amphitheatre before the lights came up and anyone had a chance to see them go.

All this I knew, and yet I absolutely convinced myself that he had been behind it. He paid someone to cut the lights, somehow made his way to the stage quickly and he and Christine dropped through a trap door together. It was not impossible. After all, did not Raoul know that the traps were there? Had not I observed him and Christine inspecting a trap quite closely the day she kissed him? I had convinced myself so thoroughly that Raoul had abducted Christine and was certainly quite far from the Opera by now that when I encountered him quite by accident as he approached Gabriel, Rémy and Mercier just as I was about to do the same, it surprised me terribly.

He inquired where was Christine Daaé. It could have been a ruse to throw everyone off his trail, but his expression was sincere. Meanwhile, no one seemed to notice me. Evidently dissatisfied with their response, Raoul began asking others.

A moment later the police inspector Milfroid arrived. There was no way I was getting involved when the police were about, so I hid to listen as Milfroid invited Raoul to accompany him to the managers' office. I was filled with sick dread. Suppose he revealed something of Erik to the police, tonight, of all nights, when Erik was in no condition to get away! I followed them back to the administrative wing, thankful that Raoul was at the back of the crowd that had gathered for the journey. As he was about to enter the office I stepped out from the shadows and put my hand upon his shoulder. When he turned I said cryptically, "Erik's secrets are nobody's business," in what was quite probably my best imitation of my mother's accent I have ever managed.

The poor boy stifled a scream. I put my finger to my lips. The voices inside the office became louder, so I bowed once to Monsieur de Chagny and slipped away.

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**Shameless Begging****:** Please leave a review. Feel free to include in your review how fast or slow I should finish posting this story if you did not vote last posting.


	61. Darius

**Author's Note:** I've updated part 51 after I realized I left a couple of details out. Readers are still pretty divided on the whole how often to update thing, so I'm temporarily sticking to twice a week. This'll continue for at least the next two weeks while I'm back at work. Then, on December 21 when winter break starts, I may post more.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Les Miserables_ or _The Black Stallion_ or the _Adventures of Tom Sawyer_. I don't own _Because of Winn Dixie_ or _The Crying Game_. I don't own _Bohemian Rhapsody_ or the _Prophet's song_. I don't own _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_. But I do own the next 1689 words.

**Humor Warning:** Well, I certainly HOPE it's funny!

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Avoiding the police gave me another opportunity to ask after Christine of the sceneshifters. Of course, no one _still_ knew anything at all about the disappearance of the girl until I learned that there was a new man on duty that night!

I had just finished questioning Yves--Yves Mauclair was _always_ in charge of the lights, except for tonight, which was strange in and of itself--when I noticed a man perhaps a decade my junior standing off to the side looking confused and nervous at once. "Who's that?" I asked Yves, who was smoothing his shirt to the condition it had been in before I grabbed him by his lapels.

"Some new fellow," Yves shrugged. "He's here because Erik had to take the night off. Marc took Erik's place, so Gilbert took on Marc's role, so I covered Marc's job so they asked the new guy to...."

I didn't hear anything he said beyond that. I strode up to the new fellow and without asking him his name put my arm around his shoulders and led him away from the crowds. "What exactly happened here with the lights, son?" I asked him confidently, as though I were in charge. If there is one thing I have learned from Erik it is that if you pretend you are in charge, everyone rather assumes that you actually are.

"M-my apologies," he stuttered. "It w-was an ac-accident."

I stood directly in front of him, got very close and narrowed my eyes at him. "Accident, hell," I said. "Do you take me for a fool? Why did you do it?"

His eyes widened, then all at once the truth tumbled out. "The singer--the blonde soprano who disappeared--she came to me... before... something about the Opera ghost, she said... Said she'd gotten... she'd gotten... some... some strange red-lettered note. She needed my help, she said. Said she'd signal me from stage and I should turn out the lights. I told her.. you know... no, I told her, because I didn't want to lose my job. B-but she told me... there was this other scene-shifter... and he defied the ghost... and they found him hanging by the neck in a prop room after the show. And I... you know... I just couldn't... risk..." I walked away. I am sure he had plenty more to say, but let him tell it to Milfroid. I had heard enough to know that Christine had staged her own disappearance and that's all I needed to know.

I ran to the stage but could not get near the trap through which Christine had disappeared; a number of police officers had the lid open and were inspecting the area. At least, I thought, there was a chance of _their_ apprehending her. Still, in case they did not....

I found Pierre and Jacques who assured me that Erik's most recent secret was still safe. I found Darius in the wings exactly where Erik had asked him to be. I asked him to find some fake pistols in the prop room and meet me in Daae's dressing room. I suggested he hide in the storage room from which I used to eavesdrop and wait until I got there. I noticed a length of rope lying on the ground and gathered it up quickly. The death of Buquet having been recently invoked, I figured I could use it if it became necessary to frighten Raoul into cooperation. I concealed it within my coat.

"Oh--and Darius?" My brother turned back to me. I needed to thank him for all he had done for Erik yesterday and today. I suppose his help the night before had more than made up for his error with the figurines, but he had gone a step further and brought small ebony caskets for them and locked them inside where they could do no harm and could be transported without contact. He left the key with Erik who knew better than to unlock them. I smiled now as I thought of it. But there was not time for sentimental brotherly affection just then. "Darius, if I have anyone with me, we shall have to play the game, you realize." He nodded curtly at me. "We're Persian, Darius, and Erik... is _dangerous_." My brother disappeared so rapidly I felt certain he'd been taking lessons from Erik himself.

I hurried back to the managers' office. Raoul was still inside. I paced and waited. Shortly he emerged at a run. "Where are you off to in such a hurry, Monsieur de Chagny?" I asked him, accented, of course.

"It's _you_ again!" he cried out. "You're the one who knows Erik's secrets! Who _are _you?"

I smiled despite the gravity of the situation as I uttered the line I had been waiting to utter for days. "You know that very well," I told him a bit condescendingly. "I am the Persian."

Apparently the managers and whoever else was inside that room believed that Comte Philippe had abducted Christine, and they had convinced Raoul easily. It didn't surprise me. Had I not talked with the guy she bribed to turn out the lights, I might have believed it too. Instead I pointed out that Christine disappeared as though by magic and, I said, I sincerely doubted that Philippe worked at witchcraft.

"Of course not!" Raoul said, a tad insulted. "But you make a good argument." He paused, deciding. At last he said, "I shall put myself entirely in your hands. I suppose you are the only one who shall not laugh when I speak the name of Erik."

Tears stung my eyes when I heard my friend's name, so I blinked them away and said, "Let us not say that name here. Let us say 'he' only." It was mysterious enough. A thousand reasons might exist not to utter his name, and Raoul de Chagny would never guess the true one.

Raoul lowered his voice to a whisper. "You think he's nearby, then?"

"Oh, anything is possible," I said. It depends upon one's definition of nearby, does it not? I considered the layout of the Opera. Was he directly below us? We would have to venture into the cellars to find Christine anyway, so I said, "He may well be in the house on the lake."

"Oh!" Raoul breathed. "You, too, know about that house?"

"Hush," I told him. "Walk quietly so that we are not detected." And I led him in the direction of Christine's dressing room, saying, as I walked by the door of the storage closet where I hoped my brother was hiding, "Let us hope that Darius has returned!"

"Who is Darius?" the vicomte asked at once.

My brother? Would a mysterious figure from abroad such as I go about sending for his siblings for support in time of need? "My servant," I said loudly enough that Darius could hear, if he were indeed listening. "Oh, but you'll surely wish to leave your top hat in the dressing room...."

I entered Christine Daae's room and ran my hands over the walls, over the curtains, over the mirror, all as though I did not know where the secret exit was. I stalled for time. I listened for Darius's footsteps outside the room. I coughed.

Darius knocked. "Come in," I called. He did.

I fought back a grin. My brother was wearing an Astrakhan hat identical to mine! He wore a long loose overcoat and when I asked him for the items I had requested, he withdrew a richly carved box. I questioned him with my eyes. I had asked for pistols. My eyes flitted to the box and back to his eyes. He nodded curtly at the box. I wished to fling my arms about him, but instead I drew myself up to full height and looked at him seriously. I nodded back at him. He placed the box on Christine Daaé's dressing table without so much as a twitch of his lips. All those years Darius had not played our game, but so capable was he!

"No one saw you come in, Darius?"

Our eyes met once again. My brother has our mother's eyes: large, luminous and dark--almost black, while mine are green like my father's. I wondered if mine shimmered as his did now as we looked at one another.

"No, master," he responded. _Perfectly_ accented.

"Let no one see you leave."

Darius opened the door a crack, glanced out, then disappeared.

I turned and opened the ornate box. The pistols were exquisite, magnificently decorated, 18th-century-type things. "Shortly after Christine Daae was abducted I sent for my servant to bring me these," I said. That much was true. But I embellished. "I have had them in my possession for a very long time." And now, to ensure that we carried only these prop pistols and none of the usual variety that might result in Erik's--or anyone else's--being shot (again). "There can be none more reliable in the world."

Raoul didn't argue. I appraised him carefully. "Have you a pistol in your possession, sir?" I asked him. If he did, I would take it from him, dispose of the ammunition and hold the thing in my pocket until I could be certain that de Chagny was far from Erik.

But the boy blushed darkly and turned his eyes away.

"I haven't, monsieur," he said softly, grudgingly under his breath. "My brother has taken mine away."

"All the better, all the better," I said placing one of the prop pistols in his hand.

Raoul narrowed his eyes at me. "Do you mean to fight a duel?" he asked.

"Oh, yes. And what a duel," I responded. And here I pushed the counterbalance to the mirror which shimmered and trembled. Our reflections elongated as the mirror swung. Raoul's mouth dropped open in stunned surprise as I slipped through into the dark corridor and lit my dark lantern. Raoul still stood gaping in the room. I hurried back and dragged him through the hole before the mirror could rotate far enough to smack us both from behind.

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**Shameless Begging:** As always, more reviews = faster updates.


	62. The Torture Chambre

**Author's Note:** Greetings, all! I apologize for not posting, you know, daily like some of you suggested. This was just about the most hectic week at work in the history of ever and next week promises to be even worse, so bear with me. Once we get to December 21 or so, I expect to be able to post more regularly--though even that I can't unequivocally promise due to some other circumstances. But I'll try. Anyway, here's a little 1500 words or so to tide you over for a couple of days. I'll try to post again on Wednesday.

**Plush Update:** If we're still on the timeline I was last given, Erik should ship tomorrow, (Monday) and arrive at my home either Thursday or Friday. Check my DA account during the normal daylight hours later today (this post was made a few minutes after midnight on Sunday) for pictures involving the preparation for Erik's arrival.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Erik yet, but I might in a few days, along with 249 fortunate others!

**Humor warning:** Not the funniest chapter ever, but fans of the original will find plenty of amusing references. I recommend continuing to take precautions.

* * *

Certainly I could detail for you our long and grueling journey into the bowels of the Opera. I could speak in greater detail about our eavesdropping on Milfroid's police investigation as they discovered Monclair (perhaps due to guilt that his replacement might have compromised Erik's privacy, or perhaps owing to a habit of which I was not aware or a reckless choice to experiment with a bit of morphine from the store donated to Erik's woes) was found on the floor so intoxicated as to appear dead. I could detail for you our encounter with Jérôme the rat catcher, how we narrowly escaped the wretched 'shade in the felt hat' by throwing ourselves to the ground at just the right moment, how someone stole our shoes while I was opening the entrance to the mirrored foyer which Erik's forest now occupied...but all of that is provided in glorious detail in Monsieur Gaston Leroux's account, for this part I told to him in precise detail and he ate it up, practically salivating at every facet as journalists will often do.

As Raoul and I traveled the distance to the house on the lake, I composed stories of Erik, each more terrifying than the last.

I had identified Erik as the trapdoor lover before we even pressed through the mirror. I warned Raoul that the Opera was full of trap doors and trick walls and false bottoms. A sudden burst of creativity attributed the architectural design to Erik's hand, and a brief recollection of an early history lesson added the detail that he performed much of his work in secret during the time construction ceased during the war. How old would Erik have to be, I chuckled to myself, remembering our earlier conversation. Fortunately, the boy's grasp on history did not exceed mine, and he did not question me.

I lit the dark lantern that we regularly left by this door and passed it over the walls as though I suspected we might not be alone. Truth be told, were I to encounter Erik in the passage just then, the game would have been over immediately as Raoul would have been witness to my chastising Erik soundly for being out of bed. But Erik was not here, and I tried to comfort myself with the fact that he was resting comfortably (for morphine works wonders) below.

I remembered the rope I concealed within my coat and warned Raoul that Erik carried a length of rope tied like a hangman's noose which he could throw with impeccable aim around the throats of those he wished to strangle. He learned that in India, I said. I insisted that the vicomte pull button his coat closed and pull up his lapel forward and his collar up so his face was more than half obscured. I amused myself by insisting that he keep his hand at the level of his eyes as though about to fire his pistol in order to throw off the strangler's noose when it came. When Raoul made mention of the lake, I frightened him away from the possibility of ever crossing it by embellishing my tale of Erik's near drowning of me with his breathing reed. I considered all the things a master mason might be able to conceive had he unlimited time and resources and added wild imaginations to the Opera cellars.

I told him of the night the chandelier crash, how Erik was surely behind it but had denied it when I confronted him. And to match Raoul's story to Christine's, in case they compared stories later, I added a tragic past which left Erik predominantly without a sense of morality but still retaining enough humanity to desperately wish for love. I recounted my encounter with Erik the night he abducted Christine and claimed that Erik knocked me out cold preventing me from rescuing her. I painted a picture of Erik desperate to be married to Christine Daae, and Christine Daae terrified of Erik. When we arrived, it was my goal that Raoul take Christine away without any question or discussion. They could discuss the matter between themselves when they were married to each other, and if things didn't match up, they could argue for the rest of their lives for all I cared.

I described Erik as a master of sorcery, capable of making himself disappear at will, capable of shooting fire from his fingertips and able to see in absolute darkness. I described every talent Erik truly had (with the exception of _that one, _of course!) and multiplied tenfold. Erik had had asked for a past as a political assassin, but went further still. I made him into a mass-murderer in gladiator-style feats against warriors twice his strength. In Persian-accented French, the stories took on a mysterious and foreboding tone. By the time I reached the third cellar entrance to the home where Erik had re-hanged the unfortunate Joseph Buquet, I was quite over-proud of my story-telling abilities.

At length, we reached the third cellar and the place where Erik had re-hanged poor Joseph Buquet.

I dropped silently into the treed foyer, uncoiled the length of rope I had previously concealed, and dropped it on the floor at my feet before holding out my arms. A moment later the Vicomte fell heavily but silently into them. I faced him in the darkness, then moved my lantern over the mirrored walls.

"This surface is a mirror!" the boy commented.

"Indeed," I returned in my most horrified tone. I shuddered theatrically. "We have fallen most directly _into the torture chamber_." It took all my restraint not to laugh as I delivered that line, which I had conceived while attempting to explain why we might find ourselves in a forest when we arrived at the house. I looked down and "found" the rope upon the floor and shuddered again. "The Punjab lasso!" I told Raoul with horror, but softly.

Then I clapped my hand over his mouth. "Hush," I whispered.

A door opened a closed to my left. If my sense of direction did not fail me, someone had entered the room of the Louis-Philippe furniture.

"Take it or leave it, Erik!" Christine's voice conveyed a frustrated mixture of anger and desire.

"The wedding mass or the requiem mass!" Erik responded cryptically.

_What?_

I looked at the Vicomte de Chagny in the red light of the dark lantern. Lines cut across his brow as it furrowed. I am sure my own expression was a mirror of his as I considered how to proceed. It would be foolish to burst into the room at once; I had no idea what condition I would find them in. Further, I could not leave Raoul with the impression that it was so easy to enter Erik's lair. I did not have to pretend to be stumped. I was truly unsure how to proceed. It appeared the young vicomte and I would be spending quite some time in the treed foyer. Torture chamber, indeed, I thought looking at Erik's myriad of reflected trees. Oh, how the illusion sickened me, sickens me even now, to remember its dizzying effects.

"The requiem mass is not a happy one," the soprano voice said sweetly, "while the _marriage_ mass is magnificent!"

Erik moaned. "Christine, I can't go on living like this. I want to live like the rest of the world."

"Of course you do, Erik," she crooned. "You want to have a wife like everyone else. Someone to go walking above ground in the sunshine with on Sundays, just like everyone else." Her voice was filled with emotion, though for an instant I could not be sure whether it was joy or sorrow, whether she was close to laughter or close to tears. A moment later her sniffles revealed her feelings to me.

"Don't cry, Christine." Then: "I have devised a mask," Erik said carefully. What possible reason could he have for telling her such a thing? I felt my brows knit and forced myself to relax them at once. I rubbed my temples. This was no time for a headache. I haven't mentioned those headaches, have I? Fortunately, they are few and far between, but once one comes, even the best remedies are useless. I pressed my fingertips over my eyes and hoped this would not be one of those days.

Meanwhile, Erik's voice continued. "Truly, Christine. I'll look as normal as anyone else. No one will even turn around to look if we walk in the street. You'll be so happy!" He was somewhere between a drugged haze and a manipulative trick if my assessment of his voice was at all accurate. How I wished I could see Christine's expression, though, for she did not seem at all pleased, and I desperately wished to know Erik's plan, for I could not play along if I did not know the rules. Had he changed his mind, perhaps?

Perhaps Christine had changed hers, for she cried piteously.

"Christine, Christine, stop," Erik pleaded, seemingly sincerely. "Please. I can't bear to see you cry." I felt myself frowning once again and ran my fingertips over my eyebrows to smooth them. "You're afraid of me again, is that it?" Erik questioned softly. "Why are you afraid of me, Christine? Haven't I been gentle as a lamb?"

Then there was silence. Raoul and I waited a long time. "You don't love me!" Christine's voice cried, and I worried how to explain away such a phrase to Raoul. "You don't love me, you don't love me!"

I sighed heavily. Raoul stared into the distance of the forest.

The ringing of an electric bell startled me so severely I literally jumped.

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**Shameless Begging:** Everyone was so kind last chapter, and it really made my week (which was otherwise a bit like a preview of hell). Since next week plans to be still worse (perhaps the actual hell of which last week was a mere preview) please leave another encouraging remark to help me survive until break. Thanks!


	63. Nightswimming

**Author's Note:** First, I apologize for the midweek post. My internet service went out. Long story, but suffice to say it's back. Regarding the Erik Plush Project, I regret to inform you all that the great mistake involving Erik's ears delayed our progress mightily. I believe the items shipped on Thursday, though it might have been Wednesday. The 12 hour difference to China has me regularly confused.

**Humor Warning:** Still in effect.

**Disclaimer:** Despite all efforts to the contrary, I still do not own POTO.

* * *

"Oh dear," said Erik's voice. "Who might that be?" Who indeed, since _I_ had come through the drop-in foyer? Oh, but it could be anyone! Only Jacques, Pierre, and Darius knew of Erik's condition. The rest knew only that he needed the evening off owing to a family emergency. Likely everyone expected his mother was ill and we were visiting. "I shall go and tell the siren to open up," Erik said at once.

Oh, what a terrible mess that would be--Jean-Claude and Charles and Michel and François roaring into the parlor with liquor on their breath and depravity on their minds. Could they be here _already_?

Or perhaps Jacques and Pierre bringing morphine and chocolate. Have I mentioned how Erik loves chocolate, how at times it is all that will appease him? Oh, but how awful even that might be. _Greetings, Erik. What are you doing out of bed? Feeling better? We brought you those English candies you like so well. Oh! Mademoiselle Daaé! What a surprise to find you here..._ How could Erik explain any of _that_ to Christine?

But could it _be_ them already? What was the time? But no! The opera above could not be over so quickly! And then I remembered: the opera had stopped most immediately with the mysterious disappearance of the lead soprano. I prayed with all my might that it might not be the boys--any of them!--though I could not even begin to dream who else it might be.

Meanwhile, the instant Erik departed Raoul threw himself against the wall to the Louis-Philippe room and wailed, "Christine!"

"Raoul?" Her voice came back to us through the wall. "Raoul? Surely I am dreaming! Raoul! _What are you doing here?_"

Her horror could be interpreted any number of ways, and I am sure that Raoul attributed it to Erik, but having listened to a great number of ladies in my time, and having heard her voice only moments earlier interacting so intimately with Erik, I knew her horror was at having the two men in the same location where her secrets were likely to be discovered. I have, I am embarrassed to admit, occasionally found myself in similar circumstances.

"Raoul," she continued, "get out of here!"

The poor vicomte gasped beside me. "Christine! You cannot mean--"

"You must leave _at once_," she insisted. Then, as an afterthought, she added, "Do not anger Erik! Leave at once, _for your own sake_. Erik and I are to be married by the priest of the Church of the Madelaine _this very night_. It is no use, Raoul. Save yourself. Forget me!"

"Christine, open the door," Raoul cried.

"I can't," she called back unconvincingly.

"But Christine, there is no door on this side!"

"Then go back the way you came, Raoul!"

"I doubt we could get up high enough to get back out that way!"

"_We?_" Christine questioned, sounding far more distraught than before. "Have you brought someone _else_ with you?"

Raoul ground his teeth together in frustration. "The Persian, Christine, has brought me to rescue you. But we need _you_ to _open _the _door_!"

"But I can't possibly do that, Raoul!" She cried back, her voice reaching an hysterical pitch.

"Why not?" he wailed.

"Why not? Why, because... because I am tied up at present, Raoul!"

The expression on Raoul's face in that instant is beyond the capacity of mere language to describe. Indeed he should have been enraged, but the thought caught him so entirely off guard that he stood stunned, open mouthed, gaping. I am sure my own expression was of similar astonishment. Erik had always been adventurous, yes, but _this_? Had he been reading up on a certain late 18th century marquis without my knowledge? Where _did_ he find the time. I had to turn away to hide my grin. Could it be true, I marveled, and, until Raoul and I arrived, _had it pleased Christine?_

"My God, he's bound you?" Monsieur de Chagny exploded. Then he turned me to me. "God in Heaven, he's bound her! Do you hear that? She's _tied up_! He's _bound_ her! His demeanor shifted from inconsolable to furious. "That _monster_! I'll _kill _him! Oh, but I cannot get in! The door, the door... _Christine!_"

"You're _tied_?" I asked her incredulously. "_Why_ did he tie you?" I asked. When there was no answer, I added "It's not as if he thinks you could escape!"

She muttered something about killing herself and Raoul fell to heavy weeping upon the floor.

I ignored him. "He shall certainly _un_tie you," I called, "if you simply ask him to. Remember to smile sweetly at him."

Christine was unimpressed. "Go. Run away!" She insisted.

A moment later I heard Erik in the room with her. Poor Erik! His footsteps fell heavily, dragging mightily across the floor as though he was unable to lift his feet to walk properly. The door to the Louis-Philippe room creaked open and Christine's voice uttered a sympathetic-sounding, "Oh!" abruptly.

"I apologize," Erik told her in a broken voice. "There is no excuse to show you a face like mine." Ah, but he fools me every time! He was merely playing his game once again. And yet, why _should_ he, when his sympathy-garnering only endeared women to him? Had he changed his mind about Daae? Or in his wounded state had he forgotten that self-degradation might bind her to him forever? "What a state I am in," he continued. "It is the other one's fault." His voice was weak as it had been the night before. He was not merely playing for Christine, I was sure. I pressed myself against the mirror and listened intently. Erik moaned in agony. "Why did you cry out?" he asked her a moment later. "It is because I am so hideous, is it not?" he said. "_The very image of horror,_ wouldn't you say?"

"No, Erik, no...." She continued speaking but dropped her voice quite low. Was she telling him that his face was of no consequence? Or that she actually found him quite attractive? Considering the way her stories changed from day to day, nothing would have surprised me, but I could not hear what she said next. Did she ask him to untie her? Was he untying her now? Had she really been tied at all? Erik's voice was soft as well. I strained my ears in the darkness.

Suddenly Christine's voice rose again in both volume and pitch. "Why, Erik! How did _this_ happen? "

"You're wondering why I am all wet? My dear, it's raining terribly outside." I blinked. It had not been raining when _Faust_ began, I recalled. Indeed, the sky had been starry and cloudless. Had Erik been gone long enough to have gone all the way above and back? Especially in his condition! But then, perhaps that was why he sounded so tired. All the same, I didn't think he could have made it that far and back in that time on a _good_ day, let alone now. I tried to look at my watch in dim light of the lantern. No use. In all the excitement of the night before I had forgotten to wind it, and it had stopped.

"Erik, you're soaked through!"

Erik took a few heavy steps, his feet still dragging uncharacteristically clumsily across the floor. "I should not have gone out," he responded.

There was a terrible thump and it took every ounce of self-restraint I possessed not to push open the wall and rush into the Louis-Philippe room. Meanwhile, Christine murmured gentle but indistinct words while Erik moaned, "Oh, one would be cruel to put a dog out on a night like tonight."

"Erik, get out of those wet clothes," Christine implored in a small voice that went unacknowledged.

"Christine!" His voice wavered. "I fear I am hallucinating, Christine!"

A chill ran down my back and my stomach turned sour. The dull ache returned to my temples. Indeed, Erik did not sound at all well. Please, I prayed, if there is an Almighty God, please let this be part of Erik's grand plan....

"Nonsense, Erik. You really _are_ soaking wet."

"Not that, not that. Do you hear _ringing_? I hear the ringing of an electric bell. Is someone at the door?" Erik asked.

There was no ringing, no, not since the first time, not since he'd gone out. I swallowed a sob. No, there was no hope that he was playing. Poor Erik! "Is someone _ringing the doorbell again_?" Then in a haunting tone he added, "Perhaps from the bottom of the lake....It is _the other one_...." His voice fell to a whisper. I pressed my ear to the wall and held my breath.

"Erik, please. You'll catch your death."

"Yes, Christine," he said distantly. "Yes, that indeed I might. Is this what it feels like to die, Christine?"

I put my hands upon the glass and I cursed myself internally that I had let the game progress so far knowing Erik was unwell. Yes, when Christine learned it was all a rouse she would turn us in and perhaps I would suffer a jail term for my involvement, but no matter!

"Speaking of death...." Erik began to sing.

I slid down the glass pane second-guessing myself once again. His voice reverberated all around us. That voice was not the voice of a man near death. His voice was powerful and consuming, echoing throughout the cellars. I trembled for an instant, then a warmth flooded through me. Erik sang in the language of the church a haunting but uplifting prayer.

I closed my eyes and forgot everything to listen.

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**Shameless Begging:** This is the post for Sunday December 20. There will definitely be a new post by Wednesday, December 23. I'll try to put something up sooner if possible. Thanks! And again, sorry for the lack of mid-week post last week. Please review, as always. (The faster the posts, the faster the updates!!)

Psssssssst! What's up with the very few reviews? Y'all mad at me or something? Or was the chapter just not that great? If it's not, I need the feedback even MORE! Please tell me how to make it better!


	64. The Little Pouch of Life and Death

**Author's Note:** So glad to see so many of you still reading as we count down to Christmas. Things are quiet here, Chanukah being already over. Sadly, I have not yet received the five boxes of Eriks from China, so I've not yet been able to ship them. Thanks, everyone, for being so understanding. In the meantime, it's Wednesday, so here's an amusing little post for you. Next one is due on Sunday, but as I don't have anything to do on December 25, I may post again then. Enjoy!

**Humor Warning:** Look out. This is one of my favorite chapters.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the little pouch of Life and Death and neither does Christine!

* * *

"What the hell have you done with my pouch?" Erik interrupted himself without finishing the hymn. His speaking voice, too, was a roar.

_Pouch?_

"Pouch?" Christine echoed my thoughts, sounding as confused as I was. "_Pouch?_"

"Pouch," he said again. "Poche, poche, poche," he repeated, and he sounded genuinely angry. "A small pack. A... detached pocket, you might say. A poke, a purse, a fabric receptacle for carrying one's belongings. A sack. I daresay _a handbag_. A satchel, if you will. C'est une poche... En anglais 'pouch.' En italien 'sacchetto.' Forgive me, I do not know Swedish," and here his voice rose to an astonishing volume: "_but surely you know 'pouch!'_ Don't play daft, girl! _What have you done with it_?"

The poor girl! "I haven't any pouch Erik!" she cried, and I didn't have to know her well to sense from her voice that she was genuinely distraught. "I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't any pouch, I didn't see one, I don't know what you're talking about, I didn't even know you were carrying anything!" Here she broke into heavy sobs so that I could only barely comprehend as she wailed: "Perhaps you dropped it when you went in the lake!"

Damn! My dear friend had gone unequivocally _mad_. It was one thing to continue to play such games injured as he was, but to _swim in the lake_ in such condition? All the same it made perfect sense. There hadn't been time to go above and get caught in the rain, but there had certainly been time to splash about in the lake pretending to be a siren! But why? Who had actually been out there, and had he overturned the boat as he had that day that _I_ was in it? And what of this pouch? What was in it, and what would be the consequence of his having lost it?

I believe I cursed aloud. Surely no one heard me over the girl's sobs, though.

"Goddamn it girl, where is the _key?_" Now Erik sounded to be sobbing as well. Bile backed up in my throat as some premonition of dread lodged itself in my mind.

"What key, Erik?" She was screaming full force now, uncontrolled and terrified. I imagined her red-faced and bleary-eyed, blundering about trying to convince Erik she didn't have something that he seemed so certain she _did_. "I haven't any idea what you are talking about!"

It had gone on too long. I pushed the door to the Louis Philippe room.

I must tell you, here, that I had no idea how I was going to explain myself when I stumbled into the bedroom on the revolving mirrored wall of the foyer-turned-forest. Would I be the Persian Daroga, here to rescue the lovely diva from a dangerous man? Or would I simply apologize to the dear girl, show myself for what I am and implore her not to go to the police? "Please, mademoiselle, pity my dear friend. He is unwell. He is _unwell!_"

But it did not matter. I pushed.

The door did not yield to me. In surprise I whirled about to push the opposite wall, the wall that would lead me into the music room. I could leave the surely mystified vicomte there among Erik's funerary trappings to run down the hall to come through the main door of the room of the Louis Philippe furniture.

Even as I drove my shoulder against the mirrored wall I could visualize Erik, trembling and swaying in the Louis Philippe room, trying to pretend he was well while beads of perspiration coursed down his face. I laid my hand upon his shoulder. He leaned heavily upon me. "Forgive us, mademoiselle. My master is ill and must rest." I led him from the room.

The fantasy faded. I was still in the foyer. I threw myself bodily at the music room door once more. No use. It did not yield to me. Erik's words echoed in my memory: _Where is the key?_ We were _locked in_! I yelped in frustration.

"Mon Dieu!" Erik cried in a voice still more distraught than before. "Someone is _in_ there!" He addressed Christine: "_Who_ is in there?" I clapped a hand over my mouth. "Mon Dieu, mon Dieu," Erik sobbed, very near the wall now. I stood by the place from where his voice came. He must have pressed himself against the wall. "Who is inside?"

Sobbing, he slid down the wall to the floor. I could easily visualize him huddled in a heap upon the floor, hugging his knees and sobbing. I shook my head hard. This was unreal. This could not be happening. I'm dreaming, I'm dreaming, I thought. Surely this is my worst nightmare. I clutched the hair at my temples. Shaking my head had brought on the pain I'd hoped to avoid. Damn. I shut my eyes and massaged my temples until it faded.

"There's no one in there," Christine snapped. "Come away from that wall, Erik. There's no one at all in there."

I stared at the wall between us in horror. Naturally, Christine could not tell Erik that Raoul was in the foyer, for Christine had told Raoul that Erik was a monster and she had told Erik-- Well, truth be told I wasn't entirely sure what she'd told Erik, but no doubt it was some nonsense about not wanting to hurt her childhood friend's feelings or else finding that while she loved Raoul, she was, in fact not in love with him. I moaned.

"You see? You _hear_? He's _in_ there!" Erik wailed.

"Who? Certainly not my fiancé! I mean, my--my--I have no fiancé, you know," the girl stammered. "Come, Erik. I'm not interested in that little room. Let's go." Her voice was right beside me. She must have gotten upon her knees to embrace him. Then, slowly, their collective footsteps moved away.

The light that Erik had referred to as the sun the last time I was in here snapped on above us. The vicomte looked around in surprise. I squinted. The headache I had staved off until now battered my defenses. I pressed my fingertips against my eyes. Colors swirled.

Another switch clicked and I easily ascertained that Erik had darkened the bedroom.

"No, Erik," Christine's voice said, softer, gentler than before. "It isn't necessary."

I waited, straining my ears. I could not determine whether Erik responded or not.

Christine continued: "Erik, please. Turn the light back on, dear. It doesn't bother me at all. Erik, please.... Let's... with the light on..." I grinned in spite of my trepidation and the ache in my head. No, lying with a woman was probably not a good idea the day after sustaining a bullet wound, but if it would distract him from his distress at having accidentally locked me in the foyer, I was in favor of anything.

But Christine had misjudged Erik's intent, apparently.

"Now let us see who is in the little room, Christine," Erik said, and his voice moved away from her. "There is a little window, Christine, and in the darkness we shall see through it."

"Erik, please!" she cried out in a desperate tone. "Haven't I told you I am _afraid_ of the dark? _Please,_ Erik!"

I put my face in my hands. Mirrors, mirrors. Erik and his trick mirrors. Light on our side, darkness over there. I had not realized these mirrors, too, had been tampered with. How embarrassing to be viewed through the wall in our present state, the vicomte a naive bemused expression having won out over fury, and I, properly disheveled after my recent jaunt with the immovable wall and clutching my head in pain.

"You won't come? I shall go and see for myself," Erik moaned. I heard the sound of a ladder rolling into the room and clattering about.

"I shall go and see--" He interrupted himself with a loud unrestrained bellow immediately following the sound of his foot connecting with a rung of the ladder. Then there was a thump against the wall followed by muffled masculine sobbing.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** Sorry to break it here, but it really seemed to be the place. I can update sooner if there are enough of you out there reading. (In fact, I'd rather like to get this over so I can ove on to the next thing! Please leave some comments about this chapter.


	65. The Torture Begins

**Plush Update:** OMG, folks! The first 100 Eriks arrived at six minutes after noon on Christmas eve and three tester Eriks were mailed out that same day. Assuming they all get to their locations safely by tomorrow, the next 57 go out tomorrow night. Forty Eriks are hanging out in my living room waiting (totally check out my new avatar on my author's profile page!) and 150 more are on the way, so if you haven't ordered one yet, order right away! Now that they are IN we'll be selling in a variety of other ways, so please don't take the chance we run out before you claim yours!

**Author's Note:** Okay, I know it's LATE on Sunday, but I only said I'd post on Sundays and Wednesdays. I didn't say what time, did I? Today was a busy day. Lots of cleanup at home, followed by taking one of the girls to visit her grandfather, followed by taking framed certificates and diplomas and such to my husband's new office due to job change, so that kept me away from being able to edit this chapter, and as I left it up to this point, it needed the editing, which I am only just now doing, and it's almost 11, so it'll be all I can do to get this posted while it's still Sunday. Sorry for that. As to the content of the story itself, sorry for the weirdness--remember, I'm stuck with what Leroux gave us in the first place, unless I wish to deviate, which I don't. What's the challenge in that?

**Humor Warning:** I think we're finally getting back to the funny stuff. This one, the next one and the next one, no eating or drinking for certain. (Do you realize it's been MONTHS since we've had a humor-related accident?)

**Disclaimer:** Everything stupid that happens in this chapter is ALL Gaston Leroux's fault, so he can have ALL the credit.

* * *

My heart pounded and my eyes leaked. Meanwhile, my head throbbed. Nicknaming Erik's treed hell of a foyer a torture chamber became the most apropos use of language ever to have escaped my lips. I wrapped my arms about my head and tried not to squint. Squinting always makes these things worse, and I couldn't possibly bear to be locked in this place for an interminable amount of time and suffer through one of _those_ headaches.

"Here, Erik." Christine's voice cut through his moans, which lessened almost immediately.

"Oh, you'll go up? Oh, thank you. My little darling. So kind of you to save me the trouble... at my age." That last was uttered in an utterly lamentable tone. Poor Erik! But we are not _so_ old, are we my friend? On the other hand, I wasn't feeling so well myself, and it might as well have been age that did it. I put my hands against the wall and willed Erik to feel my presence, comforting him. Perhaps he would send some healing thoughts back to me. Or maybe the pain had already made me delirious.

The girl's footsteps rang out as she went up the ladder.

"Why, there's no one there!" Christine called.

I blinked and glanced back at the foyer. Likely, I could not be seen, pressed against the wall where I was. But Raoul still sat in the center of the room blinking at the forest of trees around him, artificial sunlight glinting off his blond hair.

"There's no one at all. Perhaps you are indeed hallucinating, Erik." I closed my eyes once again and replaced my fingertips over them.

"Who is it, Christine?" Erik's tone had turned mocking. Suddenly he giggled giddily. "Tell me what is _nose_ looks like, will you?" Then when she did not respond he repeated "Go on. Tell me what sort of condition is nose is in!"

I dared to remove my hands from my eyes to look at Raoul de Chagny's nose.

It wasn't anything spectacular, I decided. Rather small for his face, actually. I shrugged. Christine was silent, perhaps taken aback by the odd request. Erik snickered hectically. "Such a spectacular thing to have a nose, it must be." I sat up abruptly and looked at the wall as though I could see him through it. Was that truly a concern, I wondered. He seemed to have such fun with his many ridiculous disguises...! "If only people knew, Christine, what a joy, what a treasure it is to have a nose. If only they understood how lucky they were, to have a nose of their very own, they would never go wandering about in such a place as this, would they, Christine? Oh, but do tell me what his nose looks like!" Then, as a bit of an afterthought: "Do you suppose he uses it at all?"

"Erik, there's _no_ one. Absolutely _no_ one. It's pretty, though. Did you make this? It's _very_ nice!" Oh, foolish Christine! That patronizing tone would never fool Erik!

"Yes, Christine." Erik sighed tiredly from below. "Tell me. What _do_ you see?"

"Oh it's just lovely a forest of trees. Big leafy trees."

"Hmmm... Anything else?"

Silence. Then, "What else should I see?"

"Birds?"

"Birds," Christine repeated uncertainly from above. "I don't see any birds, Erik."

Another heavy sigh. "Pity," he said. "If there were birds we could go for a walk in there. On Sunday."

I massaged my temples. The conversation seemed inane. Was I losing my senses, or was Erik? Perhaps we both were. Or perhaps we had both lost our minds long ago.

"Why don't we go for a walk _now_, Erik?" Christine suggested. "Not _here_. _Above._ You can see _real _trees." Her voice indicated she was still at the top of the ladder.

I imagined her leaning over the edge, her blond hair (which had been loose and flowing during her performance and subsequent disappearance) hanging down as she bent over the edge of the ladder to gaze at him. She is such a lovely girl. A part of me recalled that I had seen her first and longed to seduce her. Another part became a little bit jealously bitter towards my dear friend. I imagined Christine in a dim room placing a cool cloth on my forehead and felt a bit better. Oh, _Christine_!

"Looking as I do, Christine, at this time of day? Do you really believe that is a good idea? No, let's stay here and play cards instead. I could show you some card tricks if you like. I know some _fantastic_ ones. Here... choose a card, any--oh!" He interrupted himself with a yelp. "That hurts." He laughed painfully at himself. "Never mind. Let's try something else instead. Did you know I can do ventriloquism? No. Really. I'm not joking with you, Christine. Truly. _Lis_ten! Look here, Christine. I'll raise this mask a bit so you can see my lips don't move a bit. Watch carefully now. You see my lips don't move? But you hear me, yes? I'm talking with my stomach." He chuckled a bit here and I remembered how disturbing it is to hear him while his lips don't move.

"I can make my voice sound like it's coming from over here or over there, Christine. Listen carefully. Where shall I make it go?" The girl said nothing, so Erik continued, probably for his own amusement. "Over here in your left ear. _Christine! _Ah, but your right ear. _Listen!_ Down here under the table. _You can't see me!_" he squeaked. "Into that little ebony box over there. _Hm._" His voice turned curious. "_What's in here?_ Does it astonish you, Christine? Oh, I can do it from further away, too." He laughed heartily. "Or right-here-beside-you!" She cried out, startled, and he laughed again.

The next sound I heard was undoubtedly the croaking of a frog. It was so realistic I actually looked around the torture chamber for frogs. While I looked, Erik made jokes about Carlotta. "She is singing to bring down the chandelier! It is I, Mr. Toad, singing in Carlotta's throat!" He paused and giggled uncontrollably. Apparently I had missed more than the falling chandelier of death that night. I made a mental note to ask him when I was finally free again.

Meanwhile, he changed the topic once again. "Not just that, either. I can be... loud!" he boomed. "Or quiet," he whispered. "Or _nasal._" I swear he imitated the Vicomte de Chagny's voice just then. I snickered. "Oh yes. Nasal. What do you suppose he says, over there on the other side of the wall, Christine? What do you suppose he says, through his elegant, aristocratic nose? I say, 'Woe to those who have the luck to have a nose like that.'"

He was no longer imitating Raoul's voice, and I could have been mistaken, but I thought I detected the slightest hint of an tone rather like my own. I withdrew from the wall slightly and looked in Erik's direction. Of course, I saw nothing but myself. Myself and my own unusually _large_ nose. I pouted. I forgot the pain in my head as my heart began to ache.

I glanced at Raoul again. His nose was short, sharp, well defined. He was indeed a very handsome fellow. I dared to glance at myself again. There was no comparison. My dark hair hung in untidy ringlets beneath that stupid hat I had forgotten I was wearing. With the artificial sun coming from behind me and the red light from the dark lantern reflecting off the mirrored surface into my face, the green of my eyes was so indiscernible that I might as well have been Darius with his dark eyes. Except _for that nose_, I thought. Yes, my nose was indeed much larger than my brothers. Oversized. _Bulbous._ The word 'ridiculous' came to mind. I frowned at my unhappy reflection.

I remembered that my head ached and forced myself not to frown.

"Go on, Christine. Tell me, has he a _prominent_ nose?" My cheeks burned. Erik was making fun of me! How _could_ he when I had never said anything about _his_ unusual features? I pushed at the protrusion in the center of my face sadly. There was no help for it. I tried to remind myself that I should consider myself fortunate that most people were too kind to comment on such a thing. But my _friend_... my _best _friend...!

Fortunately, a moment later Erik seemed to tire of his nose infatuation. Indeed, he seemed to tire in general quite suddenly. In an exhausted tone he implored Christine once more, "_Who_ is in there, Christine? Please... simply tell me." His voice was soft and fading, faint as it had been during our desperate carriage ride from the de Chagny estate to the Opera. Oh, Erik, my dearest friend! I didn't _care_ what he said about my stupid nose!

I could no longer restrain myself. I cried out from my place on the floor beside him through the wall that separated us. He laughed aloud. Weirdly. Had he _heard_ me? Why was that _amusing_ to him?

"Erik?" Christine's voice was suddenly questioning. Her footsteps echoed hollowly as she rapidly descended the ladder. "Erik, are you all right?" Concern filled her lovely voice and I forgave her a bit. After all, it was not her own fault she found herself entirely smitten by Erik, was it? "Erik, do you feel it's _hot_ in here?"

"Indeed, Christine." Erik's voice was faint and weak. "Un_bear_ably so." He paused. "Do not worry," he babbled deliriously. "It is because of the forest. It is an African forest, you know."

Erik began to laugh again, quietly at first but uncontrollably. He giggled incessantly without stopping for breath. Then suddenly he was laughing louder and louder until he was guffawing--wildly, madly, hysterically. He stopped suddenly and moaned a little. There was the sound a sudden very brief struggle followed by the unmistakable sound of a body falling to the floor. I cried out. I heard a body being dragged, a door slamming shut, then nothing.

I beat my fists against the wall. "Erik! Erik!" I shouted, and when there was no response I screamed, "Christine!"

Christine had looked through the little window without a strong reaction, so I could not believe that she fainted dead away at Erik's suggestion that there was an African forest on the other side of the wall. No, it left only one other possibility. _Erik _had fainted, surely as a result of over exerting himself after his prior injuries. The brief struggle was no doubt Christine's helpless attempt to hold him, or else to get out of the way as he swooned. But what purpose had Christine in dragging him from the room?

I reasoned it was likely to get him away from Raoul. Surely her two beaux encountering one another would disrupt her plans, whatever they were. After a few moments passed, I realized she likely also wanted to get away from me. To my knowledge, she had no reason to doubt Erik's story, Raoul's story , or mine. To date, Erik had been magnificently consistent. As a result, Christine surely viewed me as Erik's enemy, the man who called him a monster and led Raoul here to rescue her. If she were here of her own volition, as it seemed she clearly was, I was _her_ enemy as well. I put my head against the glass of the mirrored wall and sighed. Raoul de Chagny babbled inanely behind me. I didn't even try to comprehend what he might have made of the ridiculous line of conversation that had taken place on the other side of the wall.

Christine and Erik were gone a very long time. I decided they were lost to me, at least for the time being, and I began to attempt to devise an alternative way out before I could get to feeling any worse.

It was not worth considering going back the way we had come. We had dropped from too great a height and could not reach the opening, even if we stood upon one another's shoulders or climbed upon the tree. But there was another way, and I could not believe I had not thought of it before! The foyer was indeed the entrance to as many rooms as possible--the six rooms that lay beyond each of its six walls, yes, but also to the space below. Erik and the boys had installed a trapdoor somewhere in the floor, rather near the center of the room if I remembered correctly.

Of course, I had already told Raoul this was a torture chamber and that there was no way out, so I'd have to convince him that I was only now _discovering_ the way out. I informed him that I suspected there might be a latch somewhere that opened the door from the inside and that if he would simply remain quiet and avoid distracting me, I would find it. I then commenced to running my hands over the walls and pretending to look for the switch. Meanwhile, Raoul did repeatedly distract me with nonsensical questions and comments. My head throbbed harder than yet before and I resigned myself to the fact that it was only a matter of time before I was completely useless. It made my patience shorter than normal.

I was feeling sick and bitter and still engaged in said pretend search when I heard a low groan, deep and rumbling.

"What was that?" said Raoul de Chagny, drawing the pistol I had given him.

I scoffed. I couldn't help it. I was so annoyed. I glanced at the jungle scene around me. "It was a lion," I told him. What else could I say? I could certainly not reveal to the vicomte that the man who held us prisoner moaned with the pain of the gunshot wound he himself had inflicted the night before!

The sound came again. "Yes. Definitely a lion." I could have laughed aloud that the boy readily accepted my answer had I not felt a bit of the nausea that often accompanies these headaches creeping in and had that frustration not been further compounded by the fact that I was perfectly aware that the sound we heard was Erik's own voice, _moaning_.

Erik might be in greater pain than I was if he had reopened his wound or failed to keep up with his many pain medications. Yes, surely they would have worn off by now. What if he couldn't remember where the remaining doses were stored? I felt a panic rising. Or perhaps he would not take them in the presence of Christine! Certainly it wouldn't be appropriate to go administering morphine to oneself in the presence of a lady! I broke into a sweat. Worse still what if he _had_ done so and even that not enough after all this exertion? Oh, _poor Erik!_

Meanwhile, Raoul lifted himself on one elbow and asked if I didn't see water on the horizon.

"That's a mirage, you silly--" I stopped. _The Persian_ was more dignified than to call a nobleman an ass, was he not? I rubbed my forehead and forced myself to be civil. "Resist it. Do not believe in it. It is only a mirage," I told him.

Erik grunted again.

Yes, it was more of a _grunt_ than a moan, I decided. I sort of desperate pushing downward with the voice, rather the opposite of singing. A far more controlled sound than that which I felt apt to make in my own pain. I remember stopping then a moment, holding my hand to my head and moaning slightly. My sense of hearing seemed strangely heightened. I listened to Erik's voice, contemplated the vocalizations, felt my eyebrows come together in consternation yet again. It seemed a sound that one would actually have to _overcome_ one's pain to make. I was not presently capable of such a sound....

I froze.

I realized my friend was not in pain at all.

No, the groans were rhythmic, evenly spaced and gradually increasing in volume.

They were joined, momentarily, by soprano cries of pleasure. I decided that was certainly as good a time as any to get Raoul out of earshot. "Oh, look!" I shouted. "_There_ it is!" I threw myself upon the black headed nail that protruded from the floor and dragged the startled vicomte through the trapdoor that popped open beside it and hurried him down the stairs before he could protest.

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**Shameless Begging: **Okay, folks... The holiday is over. Reviews are expected. (Just... kidding. Except not. I mean, naturally, they're hoped for... please provide if you see fit.)

HEY FOLKS!! CHECK THIS OUT! THREE MORE REVIEWS AND I'LL POST IT NOW--TWO DAYS _EARLY_!!


	66. Barrels, barrels

**Author's Note:** Okay, it's Wednesday, and we're not to our usual level of reviews just yet, probably because folks are still doing the holiday with family thing, but it's TIME for a new chapter, I just FEEL it, so here you are. Happy New Year to those for whom it's a big deal and Bah Humbug for those who feel like I do--that they never should have changed it from April first.

**Disclaimer:** I own every single thing in this chapter except the barrels, because that was Leroux's idea. So there.

**Humor Warning:** Okay, everyone's sense of humor varies, so I can't say for sure, but to me, this one was one of the funniest. I laughed aloud while writing it. So... careful!

* * *

Ah, the sweet, cool darkness of the place below the foyer. As we entered the darkness my vision turned purple then blue, but the pain subsided some almost immediately. I steadied myself against something waist high nearby, leaned upon it heavily, breathed deeply the cool damp air of the sub-basement. I set the lantern behind me upon the ground to avoid even its dim red light, closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger.

"Do you suppose there's water in these barrels?" Raoul asked me.

"No," I responded distractedly, distantly aware that Raoul had said "barrel." _That's_ what I was leaning against. I could visualize the name of the thing twisting into its shape; these headaches alter my senses so. I massaged my face with open palms from my forehead to my cheekbones and back again.

"Then what's in them?"

"What?"

"What's in them?"

"What in what?" I sunk to the floor and put my face in both palms. My hands were cool. My head throbbed dully, but after the intensity that preceded it, I felt relief so extreme I fairly trembled.

"In the barrels."

I massaged my temples. "What about the barrels?"

Raoul made a frustrated sound. I can't say that I blame him, really. I was rather incoherent. And yet, I felt that if I could have a few more moments of quiet down here in this dark area, I might recover fully.

"Let's be very quiet," I suggested.

"All right," the vicomte whispered back.

He walked down the aisle created by two rows of barrels. The throbbing in my head lessened more. I dared to hope the worst of it was over. I stretched out upon the ground and flung an arm across my eyes. Ah, darkness!

Raoul turned at the end of a row and walked up the next row of barrels. It was then that I put together what he had asked me.

"Drinking water," I said, but it came out so softly that he did not hear me. "Water," I said a bit louder as he passed by two rows over.

"What's that?"

"A beautiful clear liquid ideal for drinking," I babbled. At least, I think that's what I said. I can be rather nonsensical as I recover from these things.

"Yes, I know _that_," he said a bit too loudly, and I winced. He seemed to remember my request for quiet then and dropped his voice to the faintest of whispers. "I mean, what about water? Why did you say 'water' to me? What are you trying to tell me?"

I drew a long breath. "You asked what's in the barrels, no?"

"Yes."

"Water."

In the silence I could sense his frustration. Finally he murmured, "I _asked_ you if it was water. You said _no._"

I might look an absolute idiot by now, but I felt so much better I couldn't bring myself to care. I rolled to my stomach and put my face against the ground. So cool, so cool....

"It might not be water," I said at last. "But then, it might be. I really haven't any idea at all."

We were quiet a long time then. I focused upon relaxing the muscles of my face and scalp, Raoul apparently upon inspecting the barrels. Barrels, barrels, I thought. I thought I heard then, a monotonous chanting of, "Barrels, barrels! Have you barrels to sell?" like they sing in the streets. I put my hands over my ears to shut out the sound, then realized the chanting was within my head, locked in my memory. I tried to think of something else, for I doubted the barrel chant's ability to rid me of the remainder of the nagging headache, but it was no use. The song echoed in my thoughts repeatedly: Barrels, Barrels! Have you barrels to sell? Barrels, Barrels! Have you barrels to sell? Barrels, Barrels! Have you barrels to sell?

I cannot estimate how long we remained down there. I might have even dosed for some time, for I have a vague memory of walking through the streets of Paris amid a myriad of barrels and buyers and vendors chanting. Then there was nothing but darkness and silence for a very long time. When I opened my eyes I felt refreshed.

I remembered my former pain, and I got up slowly, carefully, lest it to return. I gripped a nearby barrel (barrels... barrels... the chant had not left me yet) and hauled myself gently to my feet. Raoul was sitting upon a barrel (barrels... barrels... it continued) swinging his feet lazily.

I wondered now about the contents of the barrels (barrels... barrels...). Wine? Drinking water? I searched my memory, vigilantly reminding myself to neither squint nor frown as a I did so. I couldn't remember what was in the barrels (barrels... barrels... have you barrels to sell? _Someone_ had, evidently, and Erik had gone overboard in purchasing.) Had I ever actually known? As a matter of fact, had I known there were barrels (barrels? barrels? ) down here at all? In my barely-recovered state, it was difficult to be sure what was real and what was fantasy.

"Perhaps we should see what is in these barrels," I said to Raoul. (Barrels... barrels... the voice in my head echoed.)

He nodded happily at the thought. "Maybe water," he said. I nodded, gently though, so as to avoid bringing back the pain. I might enjoy a drink of cool water as well at this point, I thought, placing a cool hand against my brow once again. I withdrew my knife and crouched beside beside the barrel (barrels... barrels... the voice swirled through my consciousness). In attempting to kneel I somehow stepped back directly onto the lantern, tripped over it and myself and inadvertently smashed it beneath my feet.

To tell the truth, I must admit that I was not really sad to see it go. In its absence, the sub-basement became pitch black and I realized in the absolute darkness that I felt better still. Yes, just a few moments in the darkness and I would be myself once more. Oh, how good to feel is the darkness!

I sat upon the floor and let it envelop me entirely. At last I remembered Raoul de Chagny's existence. "My apologies," I told him. "For the lantern."

"I suppose we'll manage without it," he said softly.

"Indeed," I sighed. "Indeed we will."

"It's light above," he reminded me.

I drew a heavy breath. "Yes." I said. "Yes, that it is. A moment longer, please. Another moment more. I shall be ready. Soon." Yes. It was true. Our time in the darkness had restored me. "Come," I told him getting cautiously to my feet once more. "Let us find the staircase once again."

It took us quite some time, trying our footing with each step, running our hands over the barrels to be sure of where we walked, bumping one another, stepping upon one another, even clutching one another so as not to be separated in the utter blackness, but at last we reached the stone staircase and made our way slowly up it. Just as I put my foot upon the first of the steps, it occurred to me to wonder what time it was. I remembered vaguely Erik and Christine talking about the importance of eleven o'clock.

Raoul de Chagny did not know either, for we could see nothing in the darkness. We climbed the stairs and found the mirrored foyer in total darkness as well. I was not sorry, for though we could not determine the time, I was thankful to avoid the blinding light.

"Damn, the light is out."

"It's better this way. We avoid the tortures of the reflections."

"Yes, but in the darkness one cannot see one's watch."

"My watch stopped long ago," I said, "so it would do me little good to see it."

I heard ticking a moment later as Raoul held his watch to my ear. Then he drew it away. "But I can't see it," he said. Then, "Perhaps if I break the glass I can feel the hands."

"It's not that important," I told him, but he smashed the face of his watch against the floor anyway. Really, what did it matter the time? Raoul banged his watch again. Erik knew we were in here, and when he could figure out the way, Erik would get us out. As a matter of fact, I considered, a rope through the third cellar trapdoor might work. Just as soon as Erik returned I would suggest that. In fact, I already had a rope, (if only I could see it in the darkness!) if only there was someone above to whom I could throw it. On the other hand, I felt a bit too weak for climbing a rope. Perhaps Erik could get several ropes and tie up a ladder. And then again, Erik was not exactly in prime condition himself.

"I do believe it's just exactly eleven o'clock," Raoul said flatly.

"Yes, but _what_ eleven?" I asked him. "Is it just before noon or just before midnight?" Then, before he could answer I told him, "Silence!" for I had heard footsteps. A moment later a tiny outline of light appeared around the door to the Louis-Philippe room.

"Raoul?"

It was Christine.

"Are you still in here, Raoul?"

"Christine!" He threw himself against the barely-illuminated door.

"Christine," I said, carefully, not too loudly. "How _is_ Erik?" I no longer cared whether I was in character, whether it fit the storyline or matched what she expected.

"Oh, he's terrible," she replied. "He's done nothing but rave and laugh for the past hour. He took of his mask and pranced around saying terrible things to me. His eyes flash like fire and he seems as though he is drunk, but he says that he is fine! He staggers about and slurs his speech, but when I mentioned it, he said only, 'Devil take it, I know what's proper behavior!'"

I attempted to digest this. I rubbed my temples. Did I feel that dreadful headache coming back?

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** I kid you not when I say I practically live for these reviews. I check for them every morning as soon as I get up, before I do anything else, and I check for them last thing before bed. That's not to say I don't check during the day... I do. I SO look forward to hearing what you liked best or what you found funniest!


	67. The grasshopper and the scorpion

**Author's Note:** Okay... I guess at this point I can't have a favorite chapter anymore because they've just all been too much fun to write and post, but this is one that I really enjoyed creating, when I finally got past the fact that what Leroux gave us to start with wasn't very realistic at all. This is the best I could do with it, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

**Humor Warning:** Other than Deb getting kicked out of her husband's office last chapter (allegedly her laughter was a distraction, but I think he's really just jealous of Erik) we haven't had a humor-related negative consequence in months. Let's try to keep it that way, hey?

**Disclaimer:** This is _all_ Gaston Leroux's fault.

* * *

"You'd better go now, Raoul. Erik's terrible when someone upsets him. Don't make him angry. I can't stay and talk now. Just go." Her footsteps moved away from us in the direction of the bathroom off the Louis Philippe bedroom. "Oh!" her soprano voice trilled from the bathroom door, then her light footsteps trotted into the bedroom and stopped again. "Erik!" she called excitedly.

If Erik responded, he was too far away for me to hear it. He did response, though, I'm sure, for Christine continued.

"I think I have found that pouch you were looking for earlier!"

Again, there was no audible response from Erik.

"There are two _keys_ inside it, one like a regular key and one really tiny one. Is that the pouch you lost earlier?"

Oh, thank God! We were saved! If only Erik could determine a way to get me out without sending Christine and Raoul running above to inspector Milfroid!

I heard Erik's footsteps then, hurried but clumsy and far to my left.

"It's like the one to my jewelry box," Christine mused apparently upon smaller of the two keys. Then: "Oh! It opens _this_!" A click. "Oh! What peculiar figurines!"

_Running_ footsteps. "No! Don't touch that!" Erik's voice was panicked and panting, barely reaching the door.

"Why ever not, my darling?" Christine Daae

"No," Erik roared. He drew out the single syllable of the word for the duration of several seconds.

Christine made a sharp little sound. I imagine her little hands pulled back and away and then went up, up, up and over and found the back of head so that she could tighten her elbows about her ears. "I won't, I won't!" she cried desperately. Perhaps she crouched upon the floor. "Only tell me why it upsets you so much," she sniveled.

Erik's voice was filled with horror. "Because-- because--" he paused. Because a barren woman, upon touching that terrible thing might soon be the mother of three. Because men who try in vain to produce children for their doting wives at once become successful after carrying it in the pocket for an afternoon. Because that thing is apt to double or even triple our fecundity which would no doubt ruin your career and all my pleasure. "Because... because it's... it is _dangerous,_" he managed, but barely. He choked: "If Mademoiselle were to touch the grasshopper, something _terrible_ would happen." I could certainly attest to that, and I had not even touched the damnable figure!

"Something terrible?" Her voice was timid and small.

"Beware the grasshopper," Erik cried theatrically. "The grasshopper... it _hops_." I snickered into my hand. In our native French, Erik's word choice made a most dreadful pun; he suggested the grasshopper would explode.

"Hops?" Christine squeaked from far away and near the floor.

"Indeed," Erik continued. "So might we all, actually for beneath the Opera is enough gunpowder to destroy a quarter of Paris."

"_That's_ what's in those barrels!" I hissed the to Vicomte de Chagny, and he nodded seriously.

Erik's voice became matter-of-fact. "Mmm, yes. _Right_ beneath us it is, actually. And all it takes to ignite it and blow the entire Opera to pieces--with all those innocent fools applauding that Meyerbeer work above us--is for someone foolish to touch... this... little... figurine..."

He must have reached towards it for the girl's voice cried out, "Erik, no! God, no, don't _you_ touch it either, then!"

"Yes, yes... dear child. Then we won't touch it then. But now, this one over here--" His tone changed dramatically from cautious to enticing, "You see... See the _scorpion_, Christine? Go on. You can touch _that _one."

"I'm not too certain I want to touch any of your figurines now, Erik. You frightened me terribly!"

He chuckled but his lustful tone was not diminished. "Oh, worry not, darling. You can touch this one! This one is quite delightful. Oh, but you still don't want to? Come now. Erik will find you something else to touch." _Again,_ Erik? Damn him, doesn't he _ever_ get enough? "What is the most delightful thing in the world, do you suppose, Christine?"

"A wedding!" she said instantly.

"A wedding! Dear me, did you say a _wedding_! Well, perhaps... But I can think of something rather more pleasant than a lengthy mass and a festive meal, I think." His voice dropped to a murmur, and I am sure his hands were upon her.

She emitted a low moan. I rolled my eyes upward in jealous frustration.

"Christine," he moaned.

"Actually, Erik, not right now." A moment later: "_No,_ Erik," she insisted. "I _said_ not right now."

I must say that I was inclined to agree with her. Physicians say that for men of our age, coitus may be performed no more than twice weekly, within the bounds of marriage, of course. Younger men, say those the age of the vicomte beside me as an example, are said to be able to endure as much as four times a week, so long as they leave a day between. There is not an age at which physicians condone what Erik and I have done for more than two decades. Indeed, they warn that to engage in such behavior is to court trouble later on. I have often wondered what sort of trouble one courts and at what age might it become apparent, but Erik has dismissed such concerns with a wave of his hand and an invitation to find a girl to get it off my mind.

He's probably right, ultimately. We've both always been quite healthy; I have on very few occasions fallen ill with fever, and I don't believe I have ever seen Erik succumb to anything more than a head cold. Nevertheless, such a rigorous act requires good health as a prerequisite and Erik ought to be resting. His recent encounter with Christine down the hall was an indiscretion; still more would be recklessness.

"Please," his voice was desperate. "God," the sound was a moan deep in his throat. "Do not deny me, Christine!" he panted.

"Erik, I need some time."

_To speak with Raoul? _I wondered.

"Oh, Christine, just _once_ more? Erik _needs_ you."

"Could I have just a few moments first please? Erik? Before...?"

Erik's response was inarticulate, something of a groan, a pant, a lustful whine.

"Yes, yes, in a just moment. Just... allow me..."

Perhaps she gestured or something was evident from her facial expression, for a moment later Erik conceded, "Ah, my apologies, Christine. Erik will wait."

Her light footsteps scurried toward the bathroom.

"But Christine--"

A heavy sigh from her.

"Please do not keep Erik waiting long." His voice was husky. "Erik doesn't like to wait."

A sigh of exasperation. "Five minutes, Erik," followed by an indignant sound of annoyance and some muttering under her breath.

Erik returned excitedly: "Yes, yes, certainly, my darling. Five minutes for your.. erhm...modesty, Christine. But _only_ five minutes. _Please._" His voice was thick with desire. "Do not keep Erik waiting longer than that." His heavy footsteps dragged clumsily toward the bedroom door.

"Christine!" Raoul cried as soon as Erik departed.

She did not respond right away. When she did, her words were clipped short. "Raoul!" she responded.

"Are you all right, Christine? What has he done to you? Has he hurt you?"

"Yes. I mean no. Oh, Raoul, you'd really best go and leave me here. I have to--"

"But Christine, I've told you--"

She came towards us a little. "I know, Raoul, I know, but you must. I'm doing this for you. Erik is a very dangerous man! He says he's got a store of gunpowder beneath us!"

"We know, we know," Raoul cried. "We've seen it. Barrels and barrels of it!"

"Then you know you must go, Raoul. Go at once. Do not worry for me. I can't speak about it now, Raoul! Right now I must--" Her footsteps danced around between the two doors.

"We shall die together, Christine!"

"No one has to die, Raoul. I can handle Erik myself if only you are not here. He will not harm me. He loves me! But please--"

Raoul sobbed. "Christine, Christine! My dear little fiancée!"

"Enough, Raoul. Do not hold me here longer. I really need-- "

"Mademoiselle," I warned for her sake as much as Erik's, "Whatever you plan to do next, do not touch that grasshopper!"

She made a sound under her breath that indicated frustration. Then, "Hush now! He returns!" she said.

Erik entered silently. I did not realize he had heard me until he answered me. "Mademoiselle has _not_ touched the grasshopper," he said. Then he clucked his tongue and I could easily envision him shaking his head in mock chastisement. "Neither has mademoiselle touched _the scorpion_." The lust in his voice was unmistakable.

When I administered a properly measured dose, laudanum had made Erik pain-free but silly. Morphine had almost immediately induced sleep, even without reclining, leaving him snuffling noisily and salivating all over himself. Could some combination of chlorodyne and opium, then, have so heightened his licentious desire? It must be so, for he fairly panted in desperate anticipation, "Chris_tine_...."

Christine sighed unhappily. "Erik," she said, unable to hide her frustration, "I need a few moments longer."

"Christine," he moaned in a tone of still greater desperation. I remembered that night with Carlotta; he had easily convinced both her and me that night, but his need tonight dwarfed his hunger that night. Did painkillers _increase_ desire or merely _diminish _self-control?

"Please, Christine...." He sounded near tears, but then he softened still more. "Yes, yes my dear. I'll wait, sweet Christine," he said, "Oh, I'll wait, but please, Christine, do not keep me waiting long. _Please. _You have no idea."

"Two minutes," she responded. Her voice was tight, terse, desperate in a way entirely different from Erik's. Her footsteps moved away from our door and towards the bathroom.

"Two minutes," Erik responded playfully. "I have a watch. A watch that is working perfectly well. _Two minutes,_ Christine."

Christine moaned and closed the door of the Louis-Philippe bathroom. I listened intently as she latched the door closed, turned on the running water and let out a sigh. The water ran for a long time. Under its constant gurgle I heard occasional soft grunts from Christine.

"Two minutes have passed," Erik said tiredly. I wondered if exhaustion had won out yet again.

Christine groaned in annoyance. "I'll be there in a moment," she called back.

Silence but for the gurgle of the water.

Christine heaved a relieved sigh.

I waited and listened to the trickling of the water in the sink. A moment later it was followed by a loud rush of water through the pipes overhead as Christine apparently pulled the chain of the toilet.

Seconds clicked by. The faucet squeaked as Christine turned the tap, turned it again, turned it still more. Then the door was flung open and her soprano voice shrieked, _"Erik!"_

I had nearly forgotten that my earlier headache continued as a dull, bearable discomfort across my forehead and around my ears, but the soprano screech brought back the throbbing to the place right between my eyes and shot a twinge through the back of my skull. Still, in the darkness I could manage as long as she didn't scream more.

Alas, Erik apparently did not respond quickly enough for she did yell again. "Erik! The _water!_"

I giggled in spite of my pain as I wondered whether the girl had overflowed the sink or the toilet. Or _both_.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** Come on, folks! Start the New Year off right by offering your comments in a review. Remember, I'm providing this for your enjoyment, and all I ask of you in return is that you leave some comments. _Please?_


	68. To please my wife

**Author's Note:** Okay, so I'm posting again, in keeping with my twice a week deal. I don't dare post any more often than that now because I only have about four posts worth of stuff left. Maybe it's only THREE even. Can't tell for quite certain yet.

**Humor Warning:** Things continue to get sillier and sillier. Hey, I told you this was a comedy, what do you expect?

**Disclaimer:** I blame Gaston Leroux!

**Help!:** Need help with the title of this chapter. See below for details.

* * *

"Erik!" She yelled from the doorway, frantic now. "Come _help!_"

I felt my eyes widen as she took a few uncertain steps towards him. I distinctly heard the sound of her footsteps _splashing_. My headache instantly intensified.

"Oh, Christine!" Erik's voice was filled with both horror and sympathy at once. "Oh... _dear_."

Erik dragged himself a mere step or two toward the bathroom before it happened. There was a sudden bang followed by a loud rush of what seemed to be a much _larger_ amount of water.

"Damn!" I said aloud. I put my head in my hands and ran my fingers through my hair, pulling it with frustration. Unfortunately, this served to exacerbate that unrelenting headache still more.

"Damn!" the Vicomte de Chagny echoed.

Curious why he cared that our lake house bathroom was being flooded I turned to him in time to see the water seeping in beneath one of the mirrors. "Merde!" I cussed without restraint as the water reached my shoes.

The vicomte and I backed away against the opposite wall, but it was of no use. The water crawled across the floor to us and before long we were up to our ankles. I considered climbing the tree, but my head throbbed still more heavily and I felt a bout of nausea coming on, so I leaned against the wall and helplessly let the water overtake me.

Before long, our trousers were soaked to the knees and the water continued coming, now pouring in between the mirrors not only beneath them. I reasoned that a pipe had burst somewhere and I wondered what could be done to stop the flow of water. I held my throbbing head between my hands and called to Erik, but he did not respond.

The water swirled in and rose higher still. My vision blurred as I wondered from whence it came and when it would stop. It would depend which pipe had burst, perhaps, and where it led, but for now the result was the same. Would it ever stop? Perhaps we would drown here. I had the inane idea that at least if I drowned I would no longer feel the crushing pain in my skull.

Raoul beat the walls and cried out to Christine. No answer. Meanwhile, the water nearly reached our waists and was now pouring in from above. It occurred to me that the pipe that had burst must run up the wall between the foyer and the bathroom and then overhead. I screamed to Erik to open the door. Neither Erik nor Christine answered. My vision darkened and I wished to lie down, but the water swirled dangerously. The motion of the water exponentially increased my nausea.

As the water crept higher still, I heard a banging in the room beside us and reasoned that perhaps Erik had gone for tools and returned already. "Erik!" I screamed. My vision exploded with white light at the exertion caused by shouting, but I had become too desperate not to scream; the vicomte and I were now _paddling_ about. I had a moment's reprieve as my pain lessened slightly after the blinding flash. It restored my resolve. "Erik, open the door!" I managed to yelp as I swam toward it. If only Erik would free me from the foyer while I was still even _minimally_ functional, I could _help_. We could roll the ladder into the foyer and tear apart the ceiling if need be. Surely even in our respective disabled states we could _turn off the water_! But if he didn't reach me soon, I would be useless by the time he did. "Erik!"

"Not _now_, Daroga," he called back desperately. There was a ripping sound followed by a high pitched whine of more water. "We have an emergency in here."

"Yes, yes, I know, Erik! In here as well. The water is in here as well!" I let that thought sink in as I treaded water by the door and pounded upon it. "Perhaps you'll consider opening the door now, Erik! What are we to do when the water fills the room? There is _no way out_!" I shut my eyes tight as another flash of pain cut through my head.

"No way out," Raoul murmured from the center of the room by the iron tree. I opened my eyes to look at him and saw that he had gone very pale. He stopped swimming and clutched at the tree. "Then we shall _drown_?"

"Erik! Erik!" I cried desperately, but a moment later I noticed that the water was receding slightly. "Erik, open the door!" I continued screaming anyway, frantically.

Raoul floated past me like a dead body and I determined that he had passed out when the threat of drowning overwhelmed him. I reached out and turn him upright to be sure.

"Please, Erik!" I cried, fighting hysterics.

The door opened at once and the remaining water rushed into the Louis-Philippe bedroom. Raoul and I floated out amid the gush of water and swirled into the bedroom. "Mon Dieu!" Erik murmured, his eyes widening as the water splashed over his feet. He swayed.

I fell to my knees in the receding water and wretched painfully but uselessly. How long had it been since I'd eaten, I wondered. How long had I been trapped in the foyer? Had I taken care of my own basic needs after Raoul shot Erik? How many days had it been since we visited the de Chagny estate? It seemed like another lifetime that the boy lying on the floor beside the dresser was in his own posh bedroom brandishing his revolver. I pressed my hands against my forehead for a moment before mustering the strength to lift his limp body and heave it upon the sofa. The act sapped all that remained of my resolve.

I leaned against the wall. My stomach heaved futilely once more. I could hear my own moans, though at the moment I was not consciously aware that the sound came from myself. I turned and, clutching my head with both arms, sloshed to the bed and collapsed upon it.

I am not sure how much time passed before I felt something cold upon my forehead. I opened my eyes to find Erik above me. I moaned.

"One of _those_ headaches?" he asked in a voice so soft it not only did not exacerbate my pain but even alleviated it some.

I tried to nod. My voice failed me.

"Poor Daroga." As my vision darkened, Erik sunk into the armchair beside me.

When I opened my eyes again, Erik was still at my side.

"Are you feeling _better_, Daroga?" So worried he looked hovering over me. He put his hands upon my face--cold hands, but so soothing. I could not help but relax.

Christine Daae moved about the room silently. She stood beside Erik and handed him a cup of something which he handed to me. I blinked at him dumbly. He poured something more into the cup. I stared at him, incoherent. He encouraged me to drink it, and I tried. He murmured soft words and stroked my hair as I brought the cup to my lips. The liquid was warm and soothing. I remember gulping it. Even as I did so, my eyelids felt heavy. My vision began to darken. I felt Erik's hands upon mine. The cup left my hands. I did not quite sleep but drifted in a haze. I heard Erik leave the room. I dragged myself upward. Christine Daae sat nearby reading a book. I tried to call to her but could not. I fell back upon the pillow.

She rose and came to stand beside me. She put her hand upon my forehead, the only time she ever touched me. Then she left the room without a glance at Raoul de Chagny.

When Erik returned he had his complete collection of pain medications from the night before--or the night before that, God, when had that been and how much time had passed since?--with him. He placed them upon the mantle, studied them, then came to sit by me once again.

"I'll take you above once again soon," he told me, "to please my wife."

Terror filled me, but in my stupor I could not react. I managed to nod at him once. My eyelids felt so heavy. How naturally he had uttered those words _to please my wife._ Erik! Erik whom I thought would never marry. I closed my eyes so as not to have to look at him, so as not to let him see my eyes fill with tears, and I fell asleep instantly.

When I awakened, I was in another room. I recognized it but could not place exactly where I was or how I had gotten there. I remembered four troublesome words, and I pondered them: _to please my wife_.

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** We're nearly at the very, very end now. The remaining three (or maybe four, depending on how the final cut goes) are more denouement and epilogue than anything else. Now you know all that really happened below the Opera that day and all that remains to be seen is Erik's final visit to the Daroga, which... seems a bit out of place given that they are still here together... but all will be explained. In the meantime, why not leave me a review, since we're all the way at the almost very end? I'd especially love to hear from those who have never, ever, /ever/ reviewed in their entire lives (or at least in this story). I was, by the way, really surprised to talk to one reader who previously did not leave reviews for fear of nothing "good" or "original" to say. Please don't think that way. Whoever you are, wherever you are, whatever you think, it's WORTH SAYING. Please say it. (And if you're too shy to post it openly, you can send me an email. 'Cause I'm understanding like that.)

**Title Issue:** I need some help with the title to this one. I wanted to do a pun with damn (since everyone's saying it a lot) and dam, as in 'the dam breaks' except there really wasn't a dam breaking so much as a pipe breaking... something... water... I don't know... just please help.


	69. Nothing Happened

**Author's Note:** Hello again. Here is the Sunday post of our bi-weekly Sunday/Wednesday rotation. We have, at this moment, three more parts after this, though it may turn into four because as I edit, little things come up and get added in and eventually it takes up a lot of space. All the same, we're very very near the end, as you can tell, by what's going on. Don't worry. MadameFaust has persuaded me to write deleted scenes, an epilogue and perhaps even a sequel, so no worries. If I get bold, I'll post something else with these versions of the characters. Be warned, however, the Opera fiasco was a life-changing experience for all involved. A true tragedy, really, Rasheed insists. Ah, but decide for yourself after /this/ chapter.

**Dedication:** Oh yes. And that reminds me. I must dedicate this chapter TO MadameFaust because without her, this chapter very likely would not exist. (And neither would 70. Or 72. Seriously.) So... for my dear friend and fellow Erik-writer, MadameFaust.

**Humor Warning:** Not the funniest chapter ever. More of a transition chapter with occasional funny remarks and situations. All the same, enjoy carefully, just in case.

**Disclaimer:** I lay absolutely /no/ claim to the outrageous socks. All of mine are white.

* * *

When I awakened again, the house was quiet. I listened carefully for Erik and Christine's voices but heard nothing. Were they gone? I wondered. Surely Erik would not leave me shut up here alone and run off to honeymoon with a young wife, would he? But then, I was not exactly _locked_ away; I had all the keys he did and knew my way above easily. All the same, Erik would probably leave me a note.

No! Erik would not leave me without an explanation and he _certainly_ wouldn't get married! I hoped. Anyway, judging by the lines on his face and the set of his jaw as he sat beside me before I lost consciousness, he probably wasn't feeling well enough to go gallivanting around the countryside "to please his wife," morphine or no. In fact, I recalled dimly, hadn't the morphine knocked him out entirely when I had administered it? Maybe Erik was asleep somewhere nearby. Not in the coffin... He'd had considerable trouble climbing into the coffin with the pain in his arm. Maybe in the Louis Philippe room. But I had the vague thought that that was impossible due to something that had happened... My memory was foggy. What had happened before Erik uttered the word 'wife' to me? Or had that all been a crazy dream?

All this I thought while I stared through a dim haze at the ceiling of the bedroom in which I'd been placed. I had intended to get out of bed back at "Erik would have left me a note" to go and look for it, but found my limbs rather unwilling to move. After a long time passed, I finally managed to concentrate hard enough to throw one leg over the side of the bed, then the other. I struggled into a sitting position and waited while my vision darkened. The darkness faded a few moments later and the room reappeared.

I stood slowly trying my balance and footing carefully and took a tentative step. I was coordinated but slow and lethargic. I glided more than walked across the stone floor of my room, shuffling my feet carefully. In this way, after an eternity, I reached the door and listened again. The house was silent as death.

I again wondered how long I had slept, recalled now the flood and wondered if I had dreamed _that_. Perhaps I had dreamed it _all_--the opera, the abduction, the journey through the tunnels with the vicomte... It made far more sense than believing that any of that had _actually_ happened. But then, if that was so, where _was_ Erik?

Ah, still resting, nursing his wounded shoulder, for I hadn't dreamed _that_, had I? Goodness, how _long_ had I _slept_? I felt as though a part of me were asleep still; I moved as though in a dream through thick watery air that rippled as I moved through it to reach out and grasp the door knob, with which I struggled for an embarrassingly long amount of time to turn. Eventually, I emerged into the hallway, leaned against the wall, and happened to glance down.

Someone--_Erik?_--had dressed me in a very long, loose-fitting nightshirt and a pair of brightly colored knitted socks so ridiculously thick that I dared to think it was the socks and not my impaired state which kept me from feeling the floor beneath me. Then I stopped to consider why I was feeling so impaired.

My head no longer ached. I was in a bit of a daze, my mind foggy, my vision dim, my motions inarticulate. I easily reached the conclusion that I had been (or still was) under the influence of some narcotic. From there it was not difficult to imagine the chain of events that might have occurred. Erik's worried expression and his knowledge of my debilitating headaches combined with his access to the array of bottles and vials I've previously mentioned left little doubt. _That_ explained how I'd gotten into a nightshirt without remembering it as well as the fact that I had slept seemingly so long. Though nothing explained the ridiculousness of the socks, the majority of the situation made sense. I was just rubbing my head and debating whether to go back to bed when I heard a door open and close on the other side of the parlor. I hurried in that direction as best I could, scooting across the slick floor in my colorful footwear.

I entered the parlor at almost the same moment Erik did from a door on the opposing end.

He wore a black coat over a white shirt and trousers a completely different shade of black than the coat. He was severely bent, his head below the usual height of his shoulders and he moved slowly, seemingly more in sorrow than in pain, though the pain was surely still present by the pinched way in which he held his left shoulder. He shuffled as I did and it occurred to me to wonder how anyone could perpetually use one of these substances and function even minimally. Had I a morphine habit, I would surely sleep the remainder of my life away.

I attempted to speak Erik's name, but the utterance that came from my lips was incoherent and bore little resemblance to what I meant to say. Erik looked up, nevertheless. He was wearing his black mask and his eyes were dim behind it. He said nothing but proceeded into the parlor.

I met him in the center of the room between the pilfered harp and a wing-backed chair. Grunting uncomfortably, Erik eased himself onto the sofa. I settled beside him and he turned to me at once and leaned against me, his wet clothing sapping the warmth from my body. Slowly, my memory of the events before collected. A ringing bell... Christine's voice asking why Erik was all wet, and Erik complaining about the rain... I glanced down again. _I _was wearing a nightshirt. Why hadn't _Erik_ changed?

"She's gone, Daroga," he said quietly. "Left with that boy."

I gaped at him. "Then you didn't... marry her?" My face was so numb from whatever I'd taken that I did not have to conceal my joy. My mouth could fall open, but all other expression seemed impossible.

Erik did not answer but instead collapsed upon my shoulder cried.

"Then you _did_? Tell me, Erik!"

"No, no, that was just a game we played--" His sobs cut him off.

"Then _why_ are you _crying_?"

He hiccupped. "It's not that she left, Daroga, but it's _why _she left!"

My head felt heavy and I wished desperately to go back to sleep. I could even stretch out right here, but Erik was weeping upon me. Erik, who had apparently dressed me in this nightshirt and socks, no? For who else...? Ah, yes. I must tend to Erik first, for he has always cared for me. I rubbed his back gently and waited for him to tell me.

He collected his wits, failed to suppress two more desperate sobs, then sighed heavily and pulled himself together again. "I took the boy to another room. I told her I had carried him above. I couldn't _actually_ carry him far just then, though; my shoulder was aching too badly for that. Oh, certainly morphine dulls the pain enough to endure just about anything, but then, it makes my feet so clumsy that I'm not sure we'd ever make it all the way up without some dreadful mishap along the way. So I put him in a room Christine did not know about, as I did you. I didn't have to worry about him discovering anything; he certainly wasn't going to wake up any time soon." He smiled faintly. "I put chlorodyne in a cup of cordial and gave it to him to drink. No one could remain lucid after that, I'm sure of it." I remembered a warm sweet-smelling cup Erik had handed which me softened the sounds around me and put me in a dream-like haze. As it had apparently rendered my torturous headache benign, I decided not to be angry with him.

"When I returned to Christine," he continued, "she was waiting for me then, like a real bride. I haven't told you about that, but we played at being married. Ever since the bal masque she was always saying we should get married, so I suggested we play at it, like you told me she played at being engaged with the boy. For practice, I told her. I daresay we engaged in certain activities far more often than married couples are supposed to, though. It is because we played the same scene over and over. Always the wedding night it was. Sometimes she played the blushing shy bride and other times--" He shivered. "I _wanted_ to play, but--" He put his hand upon his shoulder. "But I was in such pain. After carrying you and him, it became simply unbearable--"

"I _told _you to rest," I insisted. Any other day my words would have been a harsh reproval but this day I could barely whisper the sentiment.

Erik did not seem aware that I'd said anything and continued plodding through his story, his eyes fixed upon a point on the wall that seemed to be random and of no interest. "It was bleeding again. I took more of what you left me, but nothing stops the bleeding."

"Of course it doesn't Erik. That's why a doctor--"

"I didn't show Christine, of course. She found it peculiar that I would not remove my coat. But how _could_ I? _Look_." He removed it now, clumsily, and I saw that the white fabric was stained deeply.

I numbly took his wet coat and hung it over the back of the sofa. "Shirt's wet, too. Take it off."

"The lake is very cold this time of year," he volunteered.

I ignored this thought. The lake was _always _cold. We were _underground_. I held out my hands for him to give the shirt to me, but he did not remove it. "The _shirt,_ Erik."

"...is probably ruined, I daresay. It's a _lot_ of blood." He continued dully while I unbuttoned his shirt, a feat I found quite daunting as whatever he had poured into my cordial had not entirely worn off yet. I had never imagined how challenging is a simple buttonhole! "She was waiting for me when I returned, ready to do whatever I wished. yes, it was my turn to choose. Oh, but Daroga! If only _I_ were ready to do what I wished!" He blubbered a bit before continuing. "She took me by the hands," he held up his hands and began to weep once again.

I tugged his shirt off and tossed it aside, noting as I did so that his shoulder wound was going to need stitching to remain closed. Meanwhile, he still held his hands uncomfortably in front of him, so I took them in mine numbly and rubbed them. They were dreadfully cold. "Yes, She you by the hands. And then?"

He sniffed hard and withdrew one hand suddenly to brush it across his masked face.

"She took me to the bed, Daroga. She wanted me to undress. I was adamant about my coat, lest she see. But she took off--" Sobs overtook him suddenly and his speech became incoherent. He pulled off his mask and rubbed his eyes, sniffed desperately and rubbed the back of his wrist against his nose hole.

"Yes?"

"She took off my _trousers_." He dissolved into tears yet again and fumbled about in his trouser pockets until he produced a handkerchief--coincidentally Christine's little lace handkerchief from the night of the bal masque and this got him sniveling still more for a bit before he pulled himself together, blew his... well... whatever, folded the handkerchief, wiped his eyes and managed to continue. He took a deep breath. "She took off my trousers and _nothing happened._"

It took a moment for this to sink in fully. When it did, I could not conceive of what to say, so I mumbled something about getting him a dry shirt and shuffled to his room to dig in his wardrobe. I found another nightshirt like the one he'd provided me and proceeded, still dumbfounded, back to the parlor.

He let he help him shrug into the nightshirt while he whimpered and whined that he might as well have gone ahead and married her for real, for what would he do with his free time _now_? He rubbed furiously at his eyes with Christine's now sodden handkerchief as I buttoned him up.

Weeping softly, he let me lead him to one of the unflooded bedrooms and, ignoring the fresh handkerchief I'd brought him, continued his blubbering into his fresh sleeves.

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**Shameless Begging:** PLEEEEASE don't let _**that**_ go un-commented-on!!


	70. Security

**Author's Note:** Ah, yes, and the story comes to a close. But not yet. Because we're having such fun. And because we have not yet had the final return to the flat scene. And because I have to go one step further than Leroux and tell you what /really/ happened to Erik in the end. And so, it turns out....

**Humor Warning:** Yes, it's still a comedy, but pay CLOSE attention to the details in this chapter and the next because there are some situations that are set up now that don't become obviously funny until later. Keep track. Pay attention. Are you watching... _closely_?

**Disclaimer:** This didn't happen in Leroux. (Oh wait... maybe it did.) For those of you who wanted to know a little bit more about what didn't happen with Christine, as well as what /did/ during the three weeks between when Christine left and when Erik showed up at the flat complaining that he was dying. Here you are.

* * *

He continued his weeping and blubbering as I coaxed him into the bed and persuaded him to rest. I suppose I should have gone back to bed immediately myself, but I was feeling less muddled than before and with clarity came concern about our security.

I figured by this time--whatever time it might be, and oughtn't I find out?--it was possible that someone had discovered where Christine had gone during her disappearance and considered investigating. The clock in the parlor was no longer running, so I had no concept of time of day. Christine may have planned to run away with Raoul, but after our time in the torture chamber and the horrific past I had built up for Erik, I thought it likely Raoul would tell someone before simply leaving town. In order to determine anything, I would have to go above, but Christine and Raoul had taken the little boat across, so unless I wanted to swim (I didn't) I would have to go out through the foyer, which would require the ladder from the Louis Philippe room.

Visiting the ruins of the once richly-decorated room depressed me terribly. The formerly-lush carpet, now sopping, sucked moistly beneath my feet. The bottoms of the draperies and bedding were still dark with water. The odor of mildew was prominent.

I squished across the room to find Erik's little pouch with two keys inside. It was lying on the mantle beside the bronze figurines in their ebony casket. How it disturbed me to see them! I decided to rid us of them immediately.

I found my clothing, still dripping wet, hanging in the bathroom. I don't regularly keep changes of clothes at the lake house, so I borrowed from Erik's wardrobe, cuffing the hems outlandishly and hoping I could run two quick errands without being seen by anyone who mattered.

I swept the ebony casket containing the figurines into a box, careful not to touch any of it as I did so. I went out through the foyer by way of the ladder and pushed the country farmhouse set piece into place to cover the entrance to our hideaway lest anyone bother Erik.

The Opera was vacant and a glance out a window told me it was night, so it must be the wee hours of the morning. I found my way through a number of rooms, offices, backstage areas, and storage areas until I had everything I needed. I wrapped the box in brown paper and tied it with string, but not before putting a note inside warning the recipient about the contents.

_Please keep these figurines secure_, I wrote after an appropriate greeting to the safest, kindest, most understanding person I knew. _Erik and I simply cannot keep them safely, and to throw them away would be irresponsible. Allow no one to touch them. Their power is quite compelling; I do not jest._ I carefully inked the address from memory, marked the box for immediate delivery and left it in the Opera's mail room where it would be noticed. I returned to the lake house by way of the boat, concealed the boat carefully, secured the main door behind me as I slipped inside, and locked all the foyer doors immediately thereafter. All that remained to do was wait until Erik could be weaned off the morphine and gotten out of the cellars quickly and quietly.

I crept to the door to look in on Erik, but alas, I could not sneak up on him; his open eyes glowed at me from the bed indicating he was awake surely saw me, so I lit the lamp after carefully concealing in the pockets of the borrowed suit the items I had carried to his door. He looked mournful. "You should be sleeping," I said.

He didn't respond so I crossed the room and sat beside him. He snaked an arm about my waist. "Oh, Daroga," he whispered. His eyes filled with tears once more.

"What's the matter Erik? You're not still worried about _that_, are you?

"Of course I am, Daroga. Anyone would be!"

I shook my head. "Nonsense. _Anyone_ would realize that he was only tired." Indeed, he had been not only exhausted but wounded and intoxicated as well.

His eyes met mine. "That's what I _told_ her. I had to tell her _something _after all. Poor girl. She fluffed up the pillows and made me lay upon them while she took off her dress in the most enticing manner, even dancing around a little. She... knelt over me. She took my hands... She put them... upon her breasts." He smiled briefly but sadly. "Alas, Daroga! Nothing! She touched me and she encouraged me to touch her. She offered to let me try things that most women would _never_ consider. And I felt absolutely nothing!" Tears streamed down his face.

Yes, indeed, something _clearly _was wrong with him, for I would have been shifting uncomfortably just at the _telling_ had I not been dressed in Erik's trousers which have a longer rise than my own.

"I told her it was because of the plumbing, because of the flood, because I had _been_ ready and then we had to fix the sink and the toilet and then there were you and the boy screaming that you were going to drown. I told her it was that, and at first I really thought that's what it was, Daroga. She said 'Oh, poor Erik! I'm so sorry!' and she kissed me. Still, nothing. Oh, the things she did to me, the things she tried...! But nothing, nothing, nothing!" He paused and pulled himself together again. "Never have I _ever_..." He shook his head hard from side to side like one who wakes from a nightmare and cannot chase the visions of terror from one's mind. "You can't imagine it unless it's happened to you."

Indeed, I could not even begin to imagine being in the same situation and being unable to react. But there was no need to upset him further. "I wouldn't worry about it, Erik. You know how you love endless variety. You've been with Christine for _weeks_ now. You're surely just _tired_ of her."

"But I thought of that. I _did!_ I thought perhaps even it was because she upset me so much with all her talk of marriage--"

"Yes, yes! That's it!"

"But it isn't. It _isn't_!" He became angry then and clumsily punched his pillow. But his anger dwindled almost instantly. "I have been _tired_ of her before. And frustrated, annoyed, angry. No matter. Like the time she came to me while I was composing. _Composing_, Daroga. I was right in the middle of a spectacular crescendo in the final overture of what promised to be a spectacular symphonic piece when she came in and sat behind me on the piano bench--all soft and white and smooth--and interrupted me sending all my thoughts scattering. I told her 'wait a bit, sit still and listen,' but she wrapped her arms around me and started kissing the back of my neck and the places behind my ears. I told her, 'no, Erik is busy, wait until later,' but I _knew_ even as I told her 'now is not the time,' that I would give in because my body disobeyed me."

"Mmm," I murmured. I have mentioned before that I am not a musician, but the thought of Christine sitting behind me on the organ bench was enough to drive me to learn. My own body was a bit disobedient as I fantasized.

"By the time she reached around and _undressed_ me--" he broke off and grinned, then looked down sadly. "But no more, Daroga," he said, shaking his head. "No more."

"I'm sure it is a one time occurrence," I suggested softly

"I don't know, Daroga," he said dubiously. "A lovely girl, disrobed and willing. I felt _nothing_. Not even the _mildest_ interest."

"It will most assuredly never happen again. Rest now. When your shoulder's healed, you can prove it to yourself with another girl."

He drew in a sharp breath. "And if I am _un_successful? What _then_? How em_barr_assing, Daroga! No, _never_...." He dissolved into tears again.

Never _again_? I thought. Was such a thing even _possible_?

He was inconsolable and it was just as well, for I had not words to attempt to comfort him. No, my own fears nagged me now. Perhaps the physicians were right after all. If Erik had exhausted his abilities, I was surely not far behind him.

For men over sixty, I remember reading in some book for married men, continence is a necessity. Could it be that by age sixty a man might simply have _nothing left_? Perhaps we had worn ourselves out two and a half decades too early! Actually, the number seemed about right since we exerted ourselves about twice the amount recommended in Doctor Debay's famous book. Internally I panicked. So much so that I almost missed the end of Erik's recitation. But outwardly I forced myself to appear placid lest Erik become still more agitated.

"I told her to go and marry the boy if she wished," he continued. "She readily agreed, of course." He sounded bitter. "Oh, I thought... I had thought that perhaps she would not... that she would stay with poor impotent Erik, for what shall I do _now_? But she _agreed_, so I went and got him from where I'd hidden him. They kissed before me, a fiery reminder of the passion I would never again experience. I stood and watched, my trousers loose and empty. I watched them go. She is gone now, but so is my..." he sniffled and gestured.

He rolled away from me and buried his face in the pillow giving me the chance I had waited for. I quickly slipped my fingers into the pocket of my borrowed coat and deftly withdrew the first two of my concealed items--a vial and a needle. I took his arm and swiftly made sure he was too medicated to do anything else stupid. He yelped at the pain but relaxed almost instantly thereafter. I spoke his name and when he responded in a dreamy voice I reminded him to rest and forbid him to go any further than the bathroom. He agreed readily, his eyes falling closed as he spoke.

As I carefully plucked from the opposite pocket something I had procured earlier--a length of catgut and an entirely different type of needle--I stroked his hair and assured him that everything would be better when he woke again in the morning.

Unfortunately, I was wrong about that.

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**Shameless Begging for Reviews:** When this piece is over, I have no idea what I shall write next, and therefore I shall need all your comments to tide me over until the next big inspiration. Please, do not leave me yearning...!

1/15/2010 note: Hey---four more reviews and I post, even if it's not Sunday yet!


	71. Meg Giry

**Author's Note:** OMG, I can't believe no one asked where Rasheed sent the package! Then again, I suppose it's just as well. I wouldn't have told if you had.

**Disclaimer:** Gaston Leroux wrote all this nonsense... all I did was point out the funny bits.

**Warning:** By this time, it seems everyone knows not to eat or drink while reading comedy, but I DO feel the need to issue a warning about the Tyvek envelopes in which plush Eriks are shipped. By definition, Tyvek is very strong and designed so as not to be easily torn. Even so, I hadn't expected people to break nails and almost fingers as they hastily open their plushes. Tyvek is strong. Use care. You can use scissors, but don't cut your Erik!

* * *

Yes, the following day was quite worse. Ah, certainly one might think that it doesn't get much worse than putting your friend into a stupor so you can sew closed with catgut a gaping wound in his shoulder after he's just had a complete emotion breakdown due to finding he is no longer capable of coitus. As a matter of fact, had someone asked me that night if things could possibly get worse, I very likely would have said no. But then, I had forgotten what true suffering is. I suppose in my naivety I had believed that after a full night's rest Erik would be somewhat more logical and that after being sewn closed his shoulder wound would cause considerably less pain making it possible to wean him off the narcotics. I suppose I may have been correct on the second count, but certainly not on the first. Further, in addition to _those_ two problems, the following morning we encountered still one more.

Erik awakened to discover that long after his tears had ceased the congestion that had come with it remained. This led him to the immediate conclusion that he was to suffer through an unbearable head cold. I have mentioned before, I believe, how insufferable Erik is when he takes ill. Fortunately, it does not happen often. Also fortunately, he usually banishes everyone from his presence until only the faintest trace of illness remains. I have been known to cook a pot of stew or chicken soup and conveniently forget to eat it as I rush out in a great hurry, taking my brother with me and listening at the door before returning to ensure we don't catch him out of bed (and isn't that what any good friend would do)? But with his shoulder wound, he needed me, as clearly evidenced by his _not_ asking me to leave the cellars immediately. I resigned myself to a week or more of making chicken soup while listening to Erik lament that he was most assuredly _near death_.

Is it any wonder, then, that on Day Three of Erik's Illness I succumbed to the temptation to sneak above and seek out one of the many lovely ladies who has occasionally been kind enough to assuage my loneliness? Oh, no. Undoubtedly, I was in profound need of something--_anything_--that might afford me a break in the monotony of the cellars.

I made my way, quite by habit I presume, to a familiar corridor, a familiar door, and realized my mistake only once I had already knocked. _La Sorelli's door._ Yes, it was a mistake, indeed, for I might find myself trapped once again. I had never managed to solve this little dilemma, and in all the excitement, I had momentarily forgotten it. As I remembered, my heart began to pound.

All the same, in her present condition she couldn't possibly be made worse by lying with me, I rationalized. Perhaps she would even be pleased to see me! Perhaps she had missed me, I dared to hope. But not too much, lest I be persuaded to remain with her until death do us part or something like that.

The door opened and an unfamiliar face peered out at me. I felt relief and disappointment at once. Then the owner of the narrow face gasped and drew back against the door. "What do you want with me?" she asked in hushed tones. I recognized her at once then: little Meg Giry.

"Why, Mademoiselle Giry," I managed, fumbling over the words inarticulately. "I apologize. I was looking for a Mademoiselle Sorelli." I cringed. I had never formally ended things with little Meg; I had simply stopped visiting her. I wondered if she was angry... or perhaps she missed me? But she did not acknowledge me and I remembered that since the time I had last lain with Meg Giry, rumors had circulated that I had the evil eye.

I bowed to her and was about to go when her words stopped me cold. "La Sorelli is no longer a principle dancer here." Her eyes were dark. "This is _my_ dressing room." Then she smiled slightly, perhaps being flirtatious or perhaps triumphant that while Sorelli had taken her place in my bed, she had taken Sorelli's place in the Opera. "I've recently been promoted." She beamed, and I decided she mustn't be _very_ angry with me to look at me like that.

I took my cue immediately. "I am not surprised in the least," I said as I nodded vehemently. "You always were quite talented." It was a lie not in that she necessarily was not talented, but in the fact that I absolutely did not know, for I did not watch in that regard when the ladies danced. But lies fell so easily from my tongue in those days, and still do, to a certain extent, and besides, I was exhausted and more importantly, I was _lonely_. Little Giry... perhaps I might have another chance with little Meg Giry. My heart beat just a bit faster at the thought of it. Oh, how long had it been? I had allowed Sorelli's troubles to chase away all my desire, but troubles or no, I was still a _man_!

I leaned in the doorway and gave Meg my most winning smile, which she returned as she let her guard down just a bit. "That's very kind of you to say." She glanced right and left within her dressing room as though wondering whether someone might be listening within the walls, then she smiled the kind of charming smile that hid something behind it. "There was a bit of fortune involved as well, though," she added, "because it was just perfect timing. La Sorelli disappeared mysteriously the same night as Christine Daae. Lots of folks are blaming the Opera ghost, but the ghost-- well, the ghost doesn't like to be talked about. I will say only that this position was not gained through talent alone." At least I think that's what she said. I wasn't _really _listening. It was such a pretty smile she was smiling at me.

But she didn't move closer to me and she didn't invite me in. To break the silence I said the first thing that came to my mind: "What then did happen to La Sorelli?" Then I winced at my own stupidity. Couldn't I have thought of _any_thing else but the other woman ?

"Oh, I won't talk about that," Meg said, her smile fading. "Or what happened to La Daae. Or to Comte Philippe or Vicomte Raoul or any of those involved in that whole sordid mess. Did I say sordid? Sorry." _Smile._

Yes. A pretty smile. A very pretty girl with a very pretty figure, yes?

"Meg," I said, changing my tone to the one I used when I needed to be most persuasive, "I've--" I moved closer, close enough that we stood nose to nose, and I could feel a difference in the air between us. "Have you ever... _missed_ me?"

She closed the space between us. Our noses bumped. Her hips brushed against mine. I could smell her perfume, feel her warmth, hear the catch in her breath as she opened her lips, waiting....

"Oh, Meg," I said, placing a hand upon the small of her back and drawing her nearer to me. I tilted my hips to alleviate the familiar tightening sensation and that's when I noticed it--or rather the _lack_ of it. And suddenly I knew exactly what Erik feared. Perhaps I was just tired, I rationalized. "Many congratulations to you, Mademoiselle," I told her softly. It's true, I was _exhausted_.... I released her and drew away. "And please forgive me for disturbing you."

I bowed deeply and turned and ran away from her all the while trying desperately not to think on the fact that I had just been in close proximity to a woman I have loved passionately and I felt nothing, nothing, _nothing_.

Oh God. The physicians were right. _Erik was right._

* * *

**Shameless Begging:** Please leave me a review. We've got so few chances left for interaction. Two and a half, I believe, if I counted right. I'm counting the epilogue as only a half, because it's short. Ah, the end... I'll be so sad to see you go!

**COME ON FOLKS!! ONE MORE REVIEW AND I CAN POST EARLY!!! WHATDAYA SAY? BE THE ONE? THE NEW CHAPTER IS ALREADY UPLOADED! IT JUST HAS TO BE TRANSFERRED IN AS A CHAPTER!!**


	72. Misery

**Author's Note:** Technically, I have left to post (after this post) ONE "chapter" and an short epilogue. The "chapter" is a bit longer than my usual chapters and as such it's getting bit unwieldy, so it may have to be broken into two parts, thus delaying our inevitable parting. I just wanted to let you know, so it doesn't look like I lied. Also, this post is being made early (on Tuesday) because so many people read and reviewed Sunday's post so quickly. I'm not sure if the next post will take place on Wednesday or the following Sunday or someplace in between, so if you like the bi-weekly nature of the posts, you might want to leave this for Wednesday rather than risk it.

**Disclaimer:** To be perfectly honest, I really can't even blame Leroux for this chapter. I'm not sure who to hold responsible this time around, but certainly I'm not culpable. Wait! You know whose fault it is? It's Susan Kay's fault because of her patently absurd Erik-does-need-a-handkerchief-because-he-doesn't-have-a-nose claim. Yes. Indeed. It's all her fault; it simply _had_ to be done.

**Warning:** This chapter is messy and annoying. Feel free to skip it. It may also be mildly amusing for those who find such annoyances amusing, so feel free to read it. Feel free to comment on it. Feel free to call me ridiculous if you like. As I said above, I suppose I simply had to do this.

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It was over two weeks before we could finally leave the Opera and during the time that passed Erik was as contrary as he was ailing. Erik is the type to nurse a cold for fully three weeks and still complain bitterly when at last he returns to the world, so I consider myself fortunate that I was able to get us out of the cellars as early as I did. While Erik sulked about with his feet in a tub of warm water, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and his handkerchief pressed against the place where his nose should be, I was forced to endure his long diatribe on how miserable he was, how he was not getting any better, how he would die in this wretched subterranean crypt all alone with no one to comfort him. It wounded me terribly since _I_ was available to him every minute of the night or day. I supposed that makes me "no one" and attempted not to think about it. To distract myself, I prepared our belongings to leave the lake house for good, or at least for an extended period of time.

With Erik's clothes I packed his original nose and the wig that matched his natural hair. His Opera nose was lost to us; I found what was left of it in the pocket of the coat he had been wearing the night of the flood. Whether he had not taken off his coat when he swam in the lake or whether it was the result of our fateful plumbing incident I might never know, but whatever the case, the coat had been soaked entirely; the nose was a mass of sticky, flesh-colored paper, irreparable. I discarded it without showing him. No sense getting him still more upset.

It was Day Ten since the Onset of Erik's Illness when I started packing, but we did not manage to leave until Day Thirteen. I _began_ packing on Day Ten because it was on that day that his color returned and with it, his arrogance and annoying attitude. He ceased pouting and even spoke to me in that condescending tone I thought I might never hear again. It was annoying, yes. Hurtful, most certainly. But it was such an improvement from Day Two when he sniveled and sniffled continuously all hours of the day and night until I could no longer stand the sound of it and had to shut myself away in the library just to escape the slurping. It was, indeed, an improvement over Day Three when he banished me from his room and locked the door in order to sneeze (almost constantly) in private and remained there throughout all of Day Four as well doing more of the same.

There can be no question that the worst of it was over when we reached Day Six, for on Day Five he allowed me to coax him into the parlor but sat miserably with his handkerchief pressed to his face for the greater part of the entire day whereas on Day _Six_ he merely held it at the ready.

On Day Seven he attempted light-hearted conversation with me to entertain himself but failed miserably because congestion made his speech so inarticulate that I could neither understand him nor suppress my giggles. Day Eight was the same except that by that time I did not even attempt to stifle my laughter and felt somewhat vindicated for the hurtful things he had said to me previously. Indeed, by Day Nine I dared to make a number of inappropriate nose jokes and finally felt a bit better about his having made fun of my oversized snout on the day of the flood.

And so it was on Day Ten, the day in which he he'd taken to lazing around in the parlor in his nightshirt and dozing on the divan (which he could surely do back on Rue de Rivoli) that I decided I had had enough and began to prepare to leave. It took me three more days, however, to work up to actually making this suggestion, however because whenever I began to suggest that he was doing better, he worsened almost immediately.

By Day Thirteen we had been holed up in the Opera cellars for more than two weeks without so much as a visitor, and I was going stir crazy. Even so, I broke it to him very carefully, very gently, that we had to leave.

I put my hand on his shoulder as he reached his favorite chair.

"I think it's time we move you back to the flat," I suggested tentatively.

His eyes widened. "Return to the flat, Daroga? In _this_ condition?" He indicated his entire body with a sweeping gesture and I regarded him. Other than the fact that he was noseless and wearing nothing more than a nightshirt and a pair of socks more ridiculous than the pair he had lent me the night of my terrible headache, he looked fine. A little thinner than previously, yes, but fine all the same. My novice stitching had held and though there would surely be a nasty scar, the bullet wound was healing nicely. Fortuitously, he'd gotten so distracted with his malady that he'd all but forgotten to complain bitterly about his shoulder allowing me to furtively wean him off the morphine.

"You sound _so_ much better, Erik," I said.

"Daroga," he sighed, "The weather is _terrible_ above. I'll catch my _death_ out there."

I wondered how he could possibly know what the weather was like when he hadn't walked further than from the bedroom to the parlor in over two weeks. "Surely you're nearly recovered," I suggested. Or _completely_ recovered! But I didn't want to argue with him.

He coughed. "And you'd risk reversing that, wouldn't you?" His sarcasm pained me, but before I could react, his lip began to quiver.

But I had known him too long to fall for any of his tears and tricks! "Oh, Erik, now you're being ridic--"

He turned away and blew nosily into his handkerchief for a long time. I said nothing as it was obvious I would not be heard anyway. When he was finally finished he made a noise of disgust and sunk into the chair.

"The flat's _very_ close," I resumed. "Only a few moments in a carriage, Erik."

He sniffed purposefully. "An _unheated_ carriage, Daroga. I'll be miserable. Not to mention the chill I shall catch waiting for said carriage to arrive. Are you trying to _kill _me?"

I fought down my frustration and changed tactics. "I'm _worried_ about you," I said, stooping to look him in the eye.

He looked up in surprise.

"This is no place to get well. The flat is so much _warmer,_ you know." I put on my best worried expression and just to make the point rubbed his arms furiously as though to warm him.

He glared at me over his handkerchief.

"I'll make more chicken soup as soon as we get there," I added quickly.

He sniffled behind his handkerchief.

"We can built a fire in the little fireplace," I coaxed.

He stared uncertainly into his handkerchief and considered it. Or maybe he was just waiting to sneeze; I don't know.

"All decided then. I'll make you another pot of tea before we go. You should get dressed at once." I turned and disappeared into the kitchen before he could argue.

Amazingly, he did dress, but he didn't stop complaining. "I'm cold _already_," he whined as we got into the boat.

"Hush," I told him and pulled his scarf tighter around his neck, although it truly wasn't much colder outside the house than inside, as we were sheltered by the ground.

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," he said as we reached the street. Indeed, he'd moaned the whole way from the lake to the surface. I'd managed to ignore most of it but his whining increased in pitch as we ascended. "I can't go out like this!" he continued, even throwing a little bit of panic into his tone.

I rolled my eyes and rearranged his scarf to cover his lack of nose, for wearing a false nose with a head cold is quite impossible; the nose was in the bottom of his bag, which _I _carried _for _him.

He made frantic eyes at me and I pulled my own scarf up similarly so he wouldn't look too unusual. "Put your hands in your pockets and act cold," I told him.

"One hardly has to _act _to do _that_," he muttered as we stepped from the protection of our passage onto the sidewalk. "Oh, Daroga, it's positively frigid! This is surely a mistake!" And when I did not respond he shivered mightily and deigned to cough a bit as well.

"It's not that bad, Erik."

"But my head is cold," he bleated. "And my ears... My _ears_ are dreadfully cold."

I rolled my eyes. We'd been outside mere _seconds_!

"Enough!" I pulled off my Astrakhan hat and thrust it so far down on his head it covered his ears entirely. His eyes shifted beneath it and above the scarf. Indeed, they were all that could be seen of him.

It took me only a moment to secure us a carriage but Erik informed me as we settled in that now, having stood outside waiting, he was _surely _going to die of pneumonia. I gazed out the window and counted the days until he would be annoying me about something _else_.

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**Shameless Begging:** As I said above, we have TWO more full posts, and a VERY brief epilogue... Do please comment here, if you can. It's always so delightful to check the messages and find reviews, while it's absolutely dreadful to find nothing. Thanks in advance. I know you won't fail me.

**Extra Begging on behalf of others:** Help the other readers out, folks! If you're reading this for the first time, please consider leaving a review. I need FOUR MORE to post early. The next post is schedule for SUNDAY but the WHOLE THING IS NOW DONE and could be posted IMMEDIATELY. Thanks!


	73. Erik is Dead

**Author's Note:** We have not yet hit our review goal, but I was feeling a little frustrated with some other areas of life and figured this would cheer me up. Additionally, I know the readers who have not yet caught up will comment later if they have the time, so I'm not particularly worried.

**Disclaimer:** You may find that portions of this "chapter" sound a lot like a scene from Leroux. As a matter of fact, it's the "rest" of the scene that started during the carriage ride home and continued immediately after Christine left. Finally, in three chapters, I manage to finish Leroux's one. All the same, I don't own the parts that do not appear to be mine.

**Humor Warning:** Yeah, this one's a bit funny, but moreover it wraps up loose ends. I'll be curious to hear what the funniest bits are.

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We returned to the flat on Rue de Rivoli quietly and without fanfare, except for Erik's under-breath grumbling. Darius was sitting by the window in a large armchair as I helped Erik up the steps and through the door. He started to get up as we entered, but I waved him back down again as I removed Erik's coat for him and eased him into a comfortable chair, crooning worriedly as I did so. Darius shot me a concerned glance and I rolled my eyes to let him know I was pandering before I plucked my Astrakhan hat from Erik's head and put it back where it belonged.

"I came looking for you," Darius accused.

"Trust me, it's just as well you didn't find us." I hurried to drape a blanket about Erik's shoulders before he could start up with his exaggerated shivering again.

Darius stared at us both a long time while I hung our coats. "What happened to the Comte de Chagny?" he asked finally.

"Please," Erik answered, "Don't speak to me of Philippe de Chagny. I am _dying_."

Darius chewed his lip and looked at me.

I remembered that Meg Giry said Philippe had disappeared. "What are people _saying _happened to him?" I asked.

Darius shrugged. "Some say he's dead."

Erik looked up. Surely he _tried_ to look disinterested, but I noted a mischievous gleam in his eyes. "_How_ did he die?" he said too casually, blinking a little.

"He drowned." Darius supplied. I remembered Erik's venture outside from which he returned soaking wet and reminded myself that I would never again suspect he was capable of something as terrible as murder.

But he fought to conceal a smile, I saw, as he asked, "Have they found the body?" Though he fought to mask it, there was some glee evident in his tone. I quirked an eyebrow at him. What the _hell_?

Darius's expression was sober. "I heard they found it on the Rue Scribe side."

As the grin spread across Erik's face he covered it with his handkerchief and pretended to be overwhelmed by a sudden fit of coughing.

Darius and I exchanged confused looks.

"What... exactly... happened to Christine and Raoul?" I tried.

Erik dabbed at his face with his handkerchief, tried to look miserable, and shrugged. "I told you they left together," he said irritably. He turned to Darius and elaborated. "They left for the north-most railway station." His tone sounded more congested than a moment earlier and I wondered if he exaggerated a little to gain our sympathy or perhaps to distract us from our questioning. "At least that's what they said." He coughed, a little too loudly. "There was talk of--" loud snuffling inhale "--getting married at the first church they came to." He squeaked into the handkerchief and I rolled my eyes.

"And Philippe?" Darius tried again.

Erik paused in his congested blowing to wag a finger at him and state, "Don't blame me for Philippe de Chagny. His fate was sealed long before he came to the house on the lake," and resumed once again.

I sunk exhaustedly into a chair. "Philippe came to the house on the lake?"

"He rang the bell." He half-shrugged and rubbed his left shoulder painfully. He sniffled again. "Some _tea_ would be nice," he said pointedly.

I groaned and started to get back up. "I'll get it," Darius volunteered. I thanked him with a weary smile.

"So it was Philippe who rang the bell," I said as Darius slipped out, glancing over his shoulder at us. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Erik looked away and did not answer me.

"When did Philippe come to the house on the lake?" I tried again.

Erik's until-this-moment-paler-than-usual cheeks reddened slightly.

"You're hiding something, aren't you?" I exploded as I thought I discovered what it might be. "You irresponsible ass! You tried to pull that siren stunt with a bleeding bullet wound?"

Erik squirmed. "No--" he began.

"Don't _lie_ to me, Erik. I was _there_. You were _soaking wet_!"

"So were you," he ventured timidly.

"That was later!" I screamed. "That was _after_ the pipe burst. Don't..." I was so frustrated I couldn't find the words for a moment. "Don't... twist this around, Erik. Long before the pipes burst Christine said you were soaking wet. _Why _would she make _up _something like _that_? She didn't! _You_ went out _there _and tried to play _siren _with Comte Philippe!"

Erik's cheeks reddened so much they matched the area below his nose hole.

"I _told_ you to _rest_!" I yelled. "And you went out and _jump_ed in the _lake_?" I was really furious with him then. It served him right he was sick! "How _dare_ you?"

He twisted his handkerchief nervously. "I didn't _jump_," he muttered at last, grudgingly.

"Semantics!" I shouted. "I don't care _how_ you got _in_ there. The point is you _got in there_. What the _hell _were you _think_ing? You're lucky you're even _alive_!"

"Good _God_, Daroga," he said at last, looking everywhere but in my eyes. "_Calm_ yourself. It is not as though I got in there on _purpose_!"

It took me a moment to digest that. How does one get into a lake 'not on purpose'? "You _fell_ in?" I asked after struggling to believe it for a long moment. "You mean to suggest you _fell_? Into the _lake_?"

He bit his lip and shrugged.

"How the hell could you fall into the lake, Erik?"

He glanced up sheepishly. "The first time he came I figured it was either you or Christine. I went out as I was. Scared him half to death."

"He thought he'd encountered the Opera ghost."

"He'd heard Raoul's tales of Erik, so he recognized me easily."

"Ah."

"He caught me off guard a bit, but then I suppose I caught him off guard too. He was looking for his brother, whom he figured was looking for Christine. He thought me quite omnipotent when I told him what I knew about the child he'd fathered with the dancer. I took a chance you might be right and further told him that I knew his desire to be with her and offered to assist him."

"Oh my God."

"He deserves a chance at happiness, don't you think, Daroga?"

"Erik, what did you do?"

"Nothing _bad_, Daroga. I _helped_ him. You should be _pleased_." He looked infinitely pleased with himself, as a matter of fact.

"This doesn't explain how you got all wet," I told him bitterly.

He sighed. "That happened the second time. He came back to thank me. He wasn't _supposed_ to come back unless something went wrong, so when he came back, naturally I thought that Pierre had failed me, but Philippe assured me that Pierre returned the dummy returned to the prop room before anyone could examine it. And the monogrammed scarf was left behind."

"Good _Lord,_ Erik! You... you _faked _Comte Philippe's _death_?"

He straightened up and tried to look dignified, which was ineffective given his ailing state. "Of course not!" He looked down the space where his nose should have been at me. "He did that on his own. I merely provided the body."

I tried to ask him how he managed it, what body he provided, but my mouth worked uselessly for several moments. At last I burst out, "I told you to rest! You shouldn't have gone above in that condition."

He sobered. "Indeed. And ultimately, you were correct. But I _did _listen to you. You told me to rest, so I did. And it _worked._ I was feeling _so_ much better by the time Philippe rang! I thought what harm could possibly come from slipping above and dragging a dummy from the prop room? Foolish, I suppose." He touched his wounded shoulder lightly, remembering. "By the time I returned I was in such pain that the strongest of those concoctions scarcely dulled it.

"You took them all at once, didn't you?"

He rolled his eyes. "Not _all_ of them," he said noncommittally.

I groaned. "But I asked Pierre. He said he knew nothing!"

"Oh, Daroga! You know how you worry so. No one wanted to worry you! I only took the dummy to Pierre, told him where to meet Philippe and went below again. By the time Philippe returned with another set of clothing-- monogrammed, mind you--Pierre had surely already assured you he knew nothing about Christine's disappearance. And he didn't. How did she disappear anyway? Seems unlikely she could work the trap from center stage."

"She begged some new guy to do it. Invoked the Opera ghost. Claimed she'd gotten one of your red-lettered threats."

He shook his head. "That girl," he managed with a sad smile. "She looks so honest, doesn't she, Daroga?" He sighed. "By the time I arrived back at the lake house she was already there, calling my name. I had intended to go immediately back to bed as you suggested, but there she was. She threw herself upon me and promised she would never leave me again."

He paused and gave me a meaningful look. "She wanted to play the wedding game again. I told her I was quite tired and perhaps another time, but she was in earnest. I told her I'd lived through enough marriage masses to last me a life time and one more would surely lead to my requiem mass, and we argued. I do believe it must be about that time you and the boy clambered into the foyer because a moment later the bell rang again.

"Confound that blasted bell, if I never hear it ring again it shall be too soon! But I had to go out. I had to check, as I said, in case something had gone wrong. So I went outside, but I saw no one. I thought perhaps I had imagined the bell. I was just about to turn to go back inside when Philippe--I realized only later it was Philippe--tapped me upon the shoulder. Daroga, he startled me so terribly. I leapt from him. But I was uncoordinated from the many medicines, and the bank is slippery, you know.

"In an instant, the water closed over my head. Water so cold--" He shuddered. "I must have opened my mouth to scream, for suddenly I had inhaled a gulp of water. I tried to swim... upward, but my arm..." An expression of terror crossed his face for an instant and he fell silent. He shivered. I rose and pulled his blanket tighter about his shoulders; his eyes seemed to thank me. "The water was _so_ very cold," he whispered. "I nearly drowned."

I drew the obvious conclusion. "_Philippe_ had to pull you out?"

"I don't want to talk about Comte Philippe anymore," he said. He placed his handkerchief over his face and cleared his sinuses. "Ugh. I tell you, I am _dying,_" he said seriously. "Speaking of," he interrupted himself, "Get a pen, Daroga." I obeyed at once. "A line in the obituary column of L'Epoque," he instructed me.

Why, I wondered? People were already convinced of Philippe's death. Sorelli's disappearance was a mystery and Christine and Raoul, married, if you believed the gossip. Who, then, needed an obituary?

"Erik is dead," he intoned.

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**Shameless Begging:** Reactions? C'mon! I gave you an extra post this week!! Now is /not/ the time to hold out on me!


	74. In which Erik learns that his greatest n

**Author's Note:** I absolutely simply cannot believe it. We began this journey together last year at the beginning of May, and here we are, nine months later, coming to a complete close. This story has gone places I didn't even plan for it to go, but all in all I believe I am satisfied with it for the most part. I will admit that I will be working in two things that I did not intend to leave out but did by accident. One is Erik's ring, which he "gave" to Christine and which she loses during or shortly after the rooftop scene. The other is the mysterious disappearance of the money which Monsieuer Moncharmin pins into Monsieur Richard's pocket. If anyone out there would like to help with regards to figuring out how to explain these two items, feel free to PM me any time with your suggestions. My only requirements are a) that we follow the Leroux timeline and b) that it make people laugh. Other than that, it can get as outlandish as you like. And with that, for now, I bid you adieu, at least until the epilogue....

**Disclaimer:** As you can well see by now, I own quite an overactive imagination. I daresay that is all I own. As usual, blame Leroux for the absurdness of the original story.

**Humor Warning:** I hope that this chapter amuses you. It may not be as uproariously funny as some of those proceeding it, but I hope that it is worthy of the story it concludes.

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**Chapter Title Note:** Because FFN would not allow the entire chapter title, I'm placing it here:

_In which Erik learns that his greatest nightmare is not only possible but actually occurring presently and his participation is being requested by the one person to whom he has never been able to say no._

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I paused, pen in the ink, and stared at him. "I am not going to write that," I said.

"But you must," he replied at once. "Who would believe my obituary if it appeared in my own hand?"

"You _aren't_ dead," I insisted, gesturing at him with the pen, which spurted ink all over my trousers and the floor.

He looked down at himself. "Aren't I?"

"Erik," I warned. "You're obviously--"

"Well, no, not _yet,_ I suppose." He sniffed and coughed lightly, then moaned a little. "But presently I shall be."

"Erik!" I couldn't bear to hear it any more than I could that night in the carriage when the threat had been real.

"Oh, but I must be, Daroga. Otherwise I would have been at work, no?" He dabbed the edge of his sleeve below his nose hole, forgetting the handkerchief entirely. "Just _write_ it," he insisted. "Erik is dead. That is all. Moncharmin and Richard will be wondering why I have not returned. _Death_ should rather excuse my poor attendance, wouldn't you say?"

"Indeed, Erik, death excuses almost anything, and when it does not, one still has no recourse against the deceased. But would it not be easier to go to the managers and simply tell them you were ill? It's..." I reflected, "...not even a lie."

He seemed to think about it a moment, then shook his head firmly with resolve. "No," he said seriously. "It is time to sever ties with the Paris Opera, I think."

I thought about this while I listened to Darius in the kitchen, preparing Erik's tea. "An ordinary man might give notice and resign," I reasoned.

Erik opened his mouth to respond then turned away and made me wait for his response while he coughed dramatically. "No," he said at last, weakly. "Death is the only way to manage it."

I rolled my eyes. "Fine. If you insist." I scribbled what he'd requested and was just making out an envelope when Darius entered the room with a tea tray.

"You'd better not publish that anywhere," he warned. "Not until you respond to all your letters, anyway."

Erik let out a frustrated noise. "If I publish it fast enough, I won't _have_ to respond to my mail!"

"But Erik, your mother--"

Darius did not need to finish. All the color drained from Erik's face at once.

How long had it been since Erik had been home for a Sunday lunch? I calculated quickly in my head. It had been nearly three weeks since the two couples had run off to be married, and before that there was the morphine, the gunshot wound, trying to save me from marriage to Sorelli, the time Raoul and Christine played their engagement game, our spontaneous trip to Perros and the death of Joseph Buquet. Indeed, Erik had not been home in at least two months.

I glanced at him again. He steadied himself against the arm of his chair and looked distressed.

Darius set a saucer on the table beside Erik and placed upon it a cup of tea (which Erik, in his panic, managed to ignore) and disappeared through the door. A moment later he returned with a pile of envelopes and tossed them into Erik's lap. As an after-thought, he reached down and extracted one. "One for you," he said, tossing it in my direction.

I tore it open curiously. It was from Sorelli. It was short and sincere but unromantic. She thanked me for everything, apologized for leaving without saying goodbye. She hoped I was not disappointed but I would not see her again because _she was getting married._ I looked up to grin at Erik, but his eyes were wide, frantic, darting rapidly back and forth over a page he held so tightly it wrinkled where he gripped it.

"What?"

When he didn't respond I folded my letter, tucked it in my pocket, and moved to stand beside him.

_...reason not to delay longer, but I so desperately want you to be there... _

"Delay what? Be where?" I reached for the letter and drew it easily from Erik's trembling hands. "What's the date today?" I asked aloud while calculating in my head. The letter was _very _recent. I scanned it rapidly and could not make sense of any of it; it referenced earlier letters, which, I presumed, were those still scattered on Erik's lap. He tore another open, unfolded the letter and yelped.

"_What?_" I asked again, uselessly.

He tossed the letter at me and selected another.

Having not made any real sense of the more recent letter, I skimmed its predecessor with the same level of confusion.

_... I've happily accepted... eagerly wish to proceed... earliest possible time... very much hope that..._

What the hell? I turned it over to look for a signature, even though I was rather certain I recognized the writing. Indeed. It was as I suspected.

I glanced over Erik's shoulder and read between his splayed fingers:

_...missed you at Sunday dinner... absent two weeks in a row... worried about you... attempted to visit... at the Opera... a kind gentleman... I later learned he was..._

"What's... going on?" I managed at last.

"Good God, Daroga, isn't it obvious?" Before I could respond, he leapt up, forgetting to make a show of how ill he was and stomped into his room.

I shuffled and reshuffled the letters by date until I had them in chronological order and settled into Erik's chair to read, while drinking his tea. Darius perched on the arm of the chair opposite me and waited for me to say aloud what was surely apparent by this time.

Erik's mother, not having heard from him in some time, became worried about him and came to visit. When she could not locate him at the flat, she proceeded to the Opera to inquire. Strangely, Erik was not only not present but had apparently left word he had gone to visit her--which she found disconcerting since he had not arrived. She was just beginning to be come a bit distraught when a kind gentleman by the name of Armand happened to notice her agitated state and sought to put her mind at ease. They began talking and before long he offered to take her out for dinner, and she, grateful for his kindness, agreed.

Things apparently progressed quickly, it seemed, because within the two months that had passed she had already accepted his proposal of marriage and was now hastening the ceremony. Why it could not wait a few months more escaped me entirely until I happened to notice one of her post scripts:

_Please tell Rasheed that of course I will most certainly keep the figurines that you and he were unable to incorporate into your decor. Indeed, they _are_ quite compelling, and you know how dearly I love Japanese bronze! They look quite delightful on the little shelf _beside the bed in my room_.

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_

**Shameless Begging:** Well, that's it. By now, you should be able to put it all together. Of course, there's a brief epilogue, because there is always a brief epilogue... and at some point in the future I may even return to explain how Leroux arrived at the conclusions he did, but for now, suffice to say, you have the complete story. Do please leave a review, whether you regularly review or whether you have sporadically reviewed, and most especially if you have never before reviewed, because this, my dear friends, is the end of the tale. Did I not promise you I would wrap it up like a Shakespearean comedy? Indeed. Ah, but for Erik and Rasheed, it is still a tragedy for them, I daresay. Poor fellows! All the same, come back and check them out in the epilogue. Maybe I'll give them a small break.


	75. Epilogue The Opera tragedy concluded

Author's Note: Don Juan is finished. Now I can live like the rest of the world.

Warning: This is the last time I'll get to warn you about anything!!

Disclaimer: I'm not sure I need this anymore. This happens AFTER Leroux's narrative comes to a close.

PS: I just realized it's not a "short" epilogue. As I edited, it somehow got longer. I suppose that's a bonus for you. Enjoy!

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We had to leave Paris after that for so many reasons, some of which you can surely guess without my listing all for you here. We hired a carriage and set out for Erik's mother's home where we planned to visit just long enough for Erik to indulge his mother's fancy by participating in her wedding to--yes, you ascertained accurately!--Armand Moncharmin.

Yes, Erik was devastated--not that his mother would marry, no. He'd long been concerned about her loneliness (and to a certain extent, I daresay he blamed himself, though this is merely supposition on my part). No, Erik's horror was due, he said, to the fact that of all the men in the world, indeed, of all the men at the Paris Opera, of all the many myriad of supervisory figures he had had in that experience, his mother had to select the least musical of the lot. While that is true--it's been said that Monsieur Moncharmin cannot distinguish the F-clef from the G-clef--I am sure that my extreme amusement at the situation did not help matters any and the fact that I commenced to refer to my friend as _Erik Moncharmin_ ever after surely exacerbated things.

Ah, but Erik had so _many_ reasons to be annoyed at his mother's choice: the fact that Moncharmin was always far less upset by the antics of the Opera ghost than his partner Richard Firmin had always frustrated Erik. The fact that Moncharmin never really believed in the ghost at all was certainly cause for discomfiture. For a time we even feared that Moncharmin had come close to suspecting the truth, a possibility that disturbed Erik significantly. Considering Erik's own gauntness, it should not have been the fact that Moncharmin was slim and weak, rather than built like Firmin Richard, who was far stouter, unless Erik projected some distaste for his own physique onto the man. When I dared to (carefully) hint at this, however, Erik contended that being slim was no excuse for being weak and Moncharmin was positively scrawny.

I rolled my eyes. As I think more about it, I wonder whether it was Moncharmin's description of Erik's nose that might have offended him. Following the retirement reception for Poligy and Debienne, Moncharmin told a goodly number of people that the unknown guest's nose that was "long, thin, and transparent." Anything else Erik might have accepted. Had Moncharmin called him ghastly, ghoul-like, or ghostly--even cadaverious or macabre!--I daresay Erik would have been pleased since he had appeared solely to call attention to the disturbing death of Joseph Buquet and convince everyone it was the work of the Opera ghost. But to insult the elongated and delicate nose Erik had so carefully created by suggesting it was _transparent_ was an unacceptable affront.

Whatever the case, Erik was not looking forward to seeing his former boss and soon-to-be stepfather and grumbled from the moment we boarded our carriage to head for the train station until many days later when the ceremony was over and we were on our way. Monsieur Moncharmin, for his part, spent the portion of our visit that did not consist of his marriage ceremony trying to determine _where_ he had seen Erik before and _why_ he looked _so familiar_.

It is true, anyone who has met Erik in one disguise will find an alternate disguise vaguely familiar as there is little he can do about his cheekbones and his forehead. As a result, every time Moncharmin looked at Erik his features took on a squinty-eyed, wrinkled-forehead look that I recognized as confusion but Erik's poor overprotective mother took for distaste. It lead to a number of arguments when they thought no one was listening, and I dared to wonder what would happen if Erik revealed the reason he looked familiar while Erik dared to hope it might result in a cancellation of the festivities. Fortunately--or unfortunately depending on your point of view--Erik's mother's sudden love for her fiancé was not to be dissuaded by her protectiveness of her son nor by her sulky son himself, and on the appointed day, she wed the man who would be the father of her second child in a small ceremony through which Erik mostly brooded.

From Erik's... erhm--_family's_ home--we proceeded towards the train station animatedly arguing where to go next. We agreed we could not go back to Paris, what with Erik "dead" and all, but where to go was open for argument. I hoped to travel south, but Erik determined that getting entirely out of the country was absolutely critical. I suggested Italy at once and cited as my reasons beautiful music and beautiful women, not necessarily in that order. Erik glared at me. It is true I said it more from habit than from interest, for I continued to share Erik's concern about the duration of our condition, but Erik took it as a bitter reminder of his inability and lack of confidence.

"But they say Italy is so beautiful," I argued.

"They have that Italian disease there, I've heard," he said flatly. Then, softly, under his breath: "Not as though it matters to _me _anymore." I had not told him I suffered similarly, and in his inability he was resentful of my perceived constancy.

I rolled my eyes. There was a nose joke to be made about the Italian disease and I opened my mouth to utter it but stopped suddenly for I realized that Erik was not engaging in mindless banter with me but was getting genuinely upset. He'd been irritable since learned his mother planned to marry, but he seemed still worse. I put aside the foul mood that was creeping up on me as well. "What's the matter, Erik?"

He didn't answer me.

He'd actually been irritable a good while _before_ he'd learned of his mother's intention to marry, but I had easily attributed it to his illness and injury and had not really reflected seriously upon my friend's emotional state.

When had I last heard Erik _laugh_? I tried to recall.

The answering memory surfaced easily: as we crept to the base of the de Chagny mansion that night. It seemed so long ago now!

I suddenly remembered his desperate words that night in the carriage. Instantly sentimental, I reached out. I could not restrain myself; I put my hand upon his shoulder. At once I remembered his horror at the boys' having seen his bare face and my speculations in the Perros cemetery that night.

Hadn't Erik always been _particularly_ petulant whenever the subject of marriage came up? Perhaps he concealed his true feelings from me. Perhaps he _had _wanted Christine to stay. Or _any _woman to stay. Oh, poor Erik! I thought. I squeezed his shoulder.

I spoke his name so gently he should not have even heard me, but he did. I suppose my tone caught him off guard because he turned back to look at me. In the shade of the carriage, his eyes glowed dimly.

I said, "I had no idea, Erik. I am so sorry."

He blinked at me. "What?"

"I suppose I wasn't listening properly to what you said that night in the carriage."

He stared at me blankly.

"I was so adamant that you would be fine that it didn't even occur to me to hear what you surely thought were your dying words. I am deeply sorry." He showed no signs of comprehension. "You... spoke of forgiveness... and loneliness... and envy. And _friendship._" I had to stop a moment to get my emotions under control. I struggled for a moment to remember his exact words and when I had them, I met his eyes meaningfully. "You are far _greater_ than the sum of all your personae, Erik. You should never feel inferior--"

"Daroga!" He interrupted me loudly with a confused expression and erratic waving of his hand.

"Yes, Erik," I continued in the same soothing tone.

"_What_ are you _talk_ing about?"

My mouth worked silently. It took me three tries to force the words out. "What you said that night... on the way home from the de Chagny place... about being no more than the least of your personae. I had no idea you felt--"

The look on his face revealed utter shock.

Then he smiled. Not a gentle friendly smile of grateful recognition, but a one-sided, twisted smirk. "The night that the de Chagny boy shot me with his pistol?" he said evenly.

I patted his shoulder. "Yes," I said reassuringly.

He laughed.

Before I could say more he held up a hand to silence me. "Don't be ridiculous, Daroga!"

I stared at him, stunned.

He continued to laugh. "Oh, Daroga! You should better! One cannot believe _anything _a man says when he believes he is dying. You should know _that_, Daroga!"

"Oh?" I raised my eyebrows. I would have expected rather the opposite was true.

"Yes," he said, though he looked everywhere but at my eyes. "A dying man will say anything so as not to die alone, you know." He coughed insincerely. "Really, Daroga," he added with a snort of derisive laughter, "_every_one knows this."

"Oh, good," I said, feigning relief. Truth is, I didn't and still don't believe him. My hand still lingered reassuringly upon his shoulder, so I took the opportunity to shove him playfully. "That's good to know," I said, laughing as well. "So tell me, Erik...."

He raised his eyebrows. "Yes, Daroga?" he said patronizingly.

"That means your will is not where you said it would be? You know? Behind the codpiece and under the ladies undergarments? Indeed, is there even a codpiece in your wardrobe? I thought not. But the ladies undergarments, now--"

"You'll _never_ know, Daroga," he responded tersely, but the pinched convulsing of his chest muscles revealed he stifled a bout of laughter. He turned away from me then and pretended to look out the window.

Suddenly, he gripped the edge of the window urgently with his fingertips and leaned so close his false nose bumped the glass. His narrow hips pivoted on his seat for an instant, then he got up and turned around entirely so he was facing backwards. Before I could say "Erik, what--?" he had leapt up, opened the door and hopped out without waiting for the carriage to stop its forward motion.

"Erik!" I yelled out the door as the driver noticed, the horse protested, and the wheels ground to a halt.

"Erik!" I took three running steps before the whistle of the driver drew me back in humiliation.

He held out his hand for the fare Erik had neglected so I rummaged in my pockets until I found sufficient funds to avoid retaliation.

By the time this transaction was completed, Erik was a block away heading in the direction from which we'd come.

"Erik!" I screamed and ran after him mindlessly.

I caught up with him only because at some point he stopped, and when I grabbed him by the shoulder and shouted his name he turned to me suddenly and put his finger upon his lips. Conditioned by our past together, I fell silent and waited.

He withdrew his finger from his lips and gestured lightly at a place across the street.

I scanned the opposite side helplessly. Storefronts, produce stands, a hand-made sign advertising hand-painted signs--ironically with the word "sign" misspelled. Crowds. A family walking together. Several men in business attire moving rapidly. A woman with blue-black hair swept into a neat bun wearing a long brown coat. A crowd of children who might have been teasing another child. Two men arguing loudly over a carriage--My eyes traveled back: A _woman_. In a long, brown coat. Her shiny raven-dark hair glistening in the sunlight. A woman, with full lips red-painted a shade too bright. _A woman...!_

Erik's hand reached out, found mine, and squeezed. He trembled slightly.

I felt it too. We were well again!

"Daroga," Erik's voice said at my ear, questioningly.

I grinned. "Go," I told him, and he darted across the street surely fabricating his next monumental story as he went.

* * *

Shameless Begging: This is the last time I will be able to ask this of you for this story (unless I do post deleted scenes, which, aren't yet in the works) so please leave me your thoughts, especially if you have never ever ever reviewed throughout the entire tale. Thanks.

A final question: Leroux's story REALLY ends some 20 years later when a body gets uncovered and the Persian tells Leroux the story. Does THAT need to be posted as well?


	76. Deleted Scene: Erik's Nose

**Author's Note:** Hi everyone!! I missed you, did you miss me? And I missed this story and these characters, so I just HAD to do something, you know? Deleted scenes are going to be slow going because they aren't ACTUAL deleted scenes that were typed and then deleted, but stuff that ran through my head but never made the cut to get into the story, so I still have to type it. All the same, I'll do one every however often I get to work on fan fiction and I hope you all enjoy.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own a papier mache nose, but I do own Gaston Leroux. No, wait.... Something like that.

**Humor Warning:** Avoid soup. You've been warned.

* * *

As I said before, we were living in the flat by the time Erik decided that looking like everyone else was important enough to drive him to sculpture. I may not have mentioned that before papier mache we tried a variety of other substances such as wood (requires too much talent to carve) clay (disastrous should one get caught in the rain, not to mention incredibly heavy and difficult to breathe through) and pasteboard (too square).

Still most of interest, really, was how to integrate Erik's new identity. In Paris, the only ones who knew Erik well were Darius and me. While in the area around Rouen Erik was well-known, in Paris he was, until that time, a bit of a nobody. He rarely went out during the day--in fact, it is when he slept. He performed his work at night; his seductions took place in the late evening or in the wee hours of the morning before the sun arose. During that time, they were still more or less all predicated on the tears and self-loathing routine about which I have told you so much already. But the noses.... Ah! What freedom Erik found with the creation of a simple somewhat triangular-shaped blob of pasty paper painted to match his ecru skin!

Indeed. That same evening we went out and about town to try it out. As I have said before, Erik has always been about elaborate hats and high-collared cloaks, but this night was different of course. If he usually exuded self-confidence, he overflowed with it this night. And women smelled it from three city blocks away and flocked.

He actually went home alone that night. Yes. He said he needed time to think over his options. And the next night he went to his manager at the Opera and declared himself available during the daylight hours as well as during the evenings under the gaslights. No, no, don't jump so easily to conclusions! It was not Debienne and Poligny in those days, no. The manager in 1875 was Gailhard, a kindly old gentleman who, no, had never seen Erik's face. I imagine he suspected Erik to be quite disfigured or malformed, for Erik always pulled his collar up and his hat brim down, and never did his employer see much more than his eyes.

Indeed, I have often said that Erik played upon sympathy in order to get to the ladies, but I suppose it could be said simply that Erik played upon sympathy, period. After all, is it not how he got to me? Is it not how he persuaded me to treat Joseph Buquet kindly? Was it not a major factor in nearly every stunt he ever managed? And yes, even his first employment may have been garnered through exploitation of the very same. That said, he appeared to Monsieur Gailhard, showed him his face plainly and made himself available at any hour of the day for any shift. No doubt poor old Gailhard thought he had only recently recovered from whatever terrible ailment had caused him to cover himself previously and promoted him, if you can call the position of sceneshifter a promotion from anything, solely on the basis of sympathy.

But so proud he was of himself after that! So proud, in fact, that he could talk of nothing except what Mother would say when he told her. Darius and I listened to nothing else for days at a time until at last Sunday came and Erik went home for dinner with his mother.

Naturally, I could not lay aside my curiosity. I couldn't admit that, of course, so I played upon the same emotion Erik used. I made it plain that I had no plans for Sunday, nor any money either and sat around sullen-faced until charitable Erik took pity upon me and invited me home to Mother's place. Erik should have found this strange, for I have long hated family affairs and polite meals, but I suppose in his exuberance he forgot.

Anyway, as our carriage neared her home, he put his nose in his pocket.

I looked at him quizzically.

He shrugged his shoulders.

I frowned heavily.

He rolled his eyes.

I looked out the window, then back at him.

"It is a_ surprise,_ Daroga," he said with mild annoyance.

I rolled my eyes and opened the carriage door. We had arrived.

I have never been a great fan of suspense, so the entire afternoon dragged by while I wondered what Erik was up to, whether he had changed his mind, when he was going to tell his mother about his new attire... But he said nothing. Unfortunately, I could not get a moment alone with him until she went to prepare dinner. But Erik was not prepared to have a discussion with me about his intentions. No. But I did not have to wait much longer after that. Apparently he had decided that dinner time was the most appropriate time to share his news.

Erik was properly adorned when his mother called to us that dinner was prepared. I headed for the dining room close behind him, not wishing to miss that first moment. What, I wondered, would she say? For I could not forget that this was the same mother who had cried with her son one afternoon in his bedroom over this very matter.

Erik leaned in the doorway. "I am ready for dinner, Mother," he announced.

"Are you now?" she responded from near the stove.

"Indeed." He turned to grin at me for only an instant. "Don't you think so, Mother?"

She moved a pot off the fire and turned away.

"Of course you are."

Oh, just look and get it over with already, I thought. But perhaps this was not the best of ideas after all. I recalled suddenly that this was the same mother who had stated quite plainly that she would never put a mask over his face and that she did not wish for him to look any differently except if _he_ wished it. Well, very well, then. He _did_ wish it. He wished it enough to spend all those hours with his hands in paste, did he not?

"Don't you want to look and _see_, Mother?" Erik was growing gleefully impatient.

She wiped her hands on her apron. "You're grown, Erik," she laughed. "If you say you're ready, I believe you. Hand me that--" she pointed. "Nevermind." She reached it.

Erik glanced over his shoulder at me once again and winked. "All the same, a son always wants his mother's approval, no?"

She glanced up but didn't really look at either of us. "Of course. And you have it--" Then she must have noticed because she turned and set the pot down and faced him directly.

If she wished for only his wishes, then all would be pleased, no? Or perhaps not...

I shifted to the side so I might see both their faces. His smile was so wide I thought his face would split. She, on the other hand, looked utterly confused. "What--" she gestured helplessly "--happened...?"

If it was possible, that ridiculous smile got wider. "Well, isn't it obvious?" he said grandly. And when she did not react, he added, "Isn't it glorious? Doesn't it look exactly as though I have an actual nose? I _made _it," he added triumphantly.

"Oh." She brushed her hands off again. "Oh, that's nice, dear," she said, in one motion turning, picking up the pot, and moving it across the room. "Now go and wash up for dinner."

Erik and I exchanged baffled glances as his mother ladled soup into bowls. Like the boys we once were, we shuffled off to wash our hands without a word to one another and shuffled back.

There was not another word about the nose as we took our seats in Erik's mother's modest dining area.

Erik's mother invited him to say grace.

Erik made a peculiar face.

She glanced at me with raised eyebrows.

I pretended not to notice.

At last she gave up and said a brief blessing herself.

Erik was already dunking his bread into his soup before she could reach "Amen" and placed it in his mouth in time to the word.

I concentrated on getting the soup into my mouth with a minimum of impolite noises. It is not always as simple as one might think. One way, the spoon clatters against the teeth. Another way, a slurping sound is heard. Oh, how I hate eating in polite company!

I glanced at Erik's mother.

She smiled.

I glanced at Erik.

He stirred his soup pointedly while looking at his mother.

_Say something_, I thought.

She looked at her bowl of soup.

I concentrated on shoveling as much of my meal into my mouth as rapidly as possible.

I glanced at Erik's mother again. She glanced from me to Erik and back again. No smile this time; she was chewing.

I looked at Erik.

He wore an expression of mild concern.

I watched him and wondered.

Suddenly, he wore an expression of... well... far _more_ concern.

It made me uncomfortable, so I glanced back down, shoveled more of consommé into my face as rapid as possible and a little sloppily. I reached for my napkin, lifted it and happened to look up just in time.

Yes. Just in time.

For Erik's nose to plop into his soup bowl with a great sound of 'sploosh!'

I swallowed rapidly lest I momentarily lose my mouthful to laughter. I stuffed my mouth full of bread to stifle any sound threatening to erupt.

Erik's mother pretended to notice nothing.

Erik stayed frozen like that, spoon in hand, staring wide-eyed into his bowl for what seemed an eternity.

Erik's mother suddenly remembered something very important, excused herself and darted out of the room.

Erik fished his ruined nose out of his spoiled soup.

I lifted the bowl and swallowed the remainder of my meal in a single gulp.

I truly hate these polite family affairs.

* * *

**Shameless Review-Begging: **It's been a while, folks. Drop me a review, even if it's just to say "Hi!"


	77. Deleted Scene: Erik's Ring

**Author's Note:**

This is my text from pt. 51 which corresponds to END of Leroux's chapter 13 where Raoul and Christine see Erik's yellow eyes up on Apollo's lyre and are frightened and run away:

We giggled like little boys as we darted through the rafters to hide to see what Christine and Raoul would do. The couple scurried past us in blind terror and raced downward at a pace that Erik and I in our middle age struggled to match. They slowed a bit around the eighth or ninth level and when we noticed that we had overtaken them we stopped for desperately needed breath. My pulse throbbed in my neck and my chest ached with the exertion. Surely we were getting too old for this. I was just catching my breath enough to say so to Erik when I noticed Christine running straight for us with Raoul in tow.

Erik still leaned wheezing and oblivious against a wall, so I put myself in their path and warned, "Not this way!" lest Christine see Erik nosed and too-humanly vulnerable.

"Who was that?" I heard the Vicomte ask Christine as they ran off another direction.

"That's the Persian," I thought I heard Christine say, and I wondered that I would be known as such. Surely I am not the only individual of Persian ancestry to be seen about the Opera, am I?

Erik laughed through his breathless puffing and we slid to the ground and dissolved into childish giggles. ******* When we were fully recovered, we got up and made our way back down, first to the ground level and then below shaking our heads and chuckling all the way. We came to our usual entrance in the third cellar and dropped through the hatch into a forest.

I stopped laughing at once. "What the hell?" I said aloud. Then I said nothing more for I was struck mute in my amazement. I stood within what was undoubtedly a forest.

**Disclaimer:** By now you know fully well what is mine and what is not. Use your imagination as I'm a bit sapped for clever disclaimers this late in the evening.

**Warning:** Oh... you know... if you're apt to laugh out loud, please don't eat or drink while reading.

* * *

**One more quick note:** This scene goes where the *s are in the above excerpt of my RDJT and corresponds to the beginning of Leroux's chapter 14.

* * *

We caught our breath and followed the couple at a distance careful not to be seen.

"What you are making me do is cowardly!" Raoul complained to Christine. "I'm running away for the first time in my life!"

"I think," said Christine, with a last glance behind her "We might be running from a mere shadow."

"If that was Erik that we saw," Raoul said, his voice even and smooth even after all the running," I should have nailed him to Apollo's lyre the way they nail owls to the wall on Breton farms. That would have been the end of that."

From where I stood I could see Christine's face, a mixture of awe and horror at her childhood friend's threat. "But you would have had to climb--" she began.

"I'll nail him up!" Raoul whirled around.

"Hush, stop it, Raoul," Christine insisted, and the boy complied, though he looked around uncomfortably.

"If you're going to insist we run away, Christine, we might as well do it all the way. Let us run away from here at once. Leave the Opera."

"Nonsense, Raoul. Erik--"

"Forget Erik," he tried again. It was arguing in this manner that they made their way all the way to her dressing room. Erik and I followed, breathing carefully, evenly so as not to make any excess noise, but it pained me greatly to do so and I longed to wheeze deeply and comfortably until my aching lungs were filled once again. But avoiding detection was critical, and so I suffered.

As the couple entered the dressing room I motioned to the closet from which I used to listen to Erik and Christine's lessons, but Erik made slicing motions across his throat with his hand and gestured wildly in another direction.

"I promised--" he gasped tightly in my ear as I pulled him into the closet nevertheless. "I swore," he insisted, "that I would never spy--" he paused to pant for breath-- "on her in her dressing room again!" Unable to hold back any longer, he drew a long deep noisy breath and expelled the air with a cough. He bent over and put his hands upon his thighs just above the knees and wheezed sharply.

"Then don't listen," I puffed, then sucked in a deep breath and held it as I pressed my ear against the wall.

"How are you supposed to get there if you don't know how to get out of your dressing room through the mirror?" Raoul was asking matter-of-factly but with a slight hint of suspicion. Then his pitch increased. "What's _this_?"

"The key to the underground gate on the Rue Scribe."

"She still has our key," I reported to Erik, who was finally returning to his usual pallor from the winded red he'd been a moment earlier. He said nothing, merely nodded as he drew another deep inhale through his open nose.

"Oh my God!" Christine burst out suddenly so loudly that I withdrew my ear from the wall and looked straight at Erik, who could not possibly have failed to hear her squeal any circumstances.

Indeed, he had not missed it, nor did he miss the opportunity to joke in his own favor.

"Ah, she calls for me," he said with a one-sided smirk.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!" Christine went on (sounding quite hysterical, I might add).

"I should respond. Do you think 'Yes, my child?' is too overdone? In a big God-type voice, of course." He puffed himself up to demonstrate but I clapped a hand over his mouth. He muttered something unintelligible into my palm. When I did not release him stuck out his tongue and liberally licked until my hand was dripping with saliva. I endured it without flinching, even grabbed the back of his head with my other hand to pull him closer. When at last he was finished, I slid my hand upward and smeared his own spit across his face. He made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat and slapped at me repeatedly with both hands until I let him go.

Meanwhile, Christine's shrill cries had changed slightly. She now shrieked "The ring! Oh, the ring! Erik's ring!"

Erik froze with his face in the crook of his arm where he had been using his sleeve to clean up his slobbery visage, wide eyes over his elbow. "Oh my God," he said faintly, turning paler still.

"You too, Erik? My, but you're a religious couple, all this talking--"

"Oh my God," he echoed faintly, his color draining so severely that even his eyes looked pale. He looked positively ill.

On the other side of the wall, Christine was not fairing much better.

"The ring! The gold ring--It's not on my finger! Oh, Erik! Erik, have mercy on me! Oh, Raoul! Woe to us both!"

Erik leaned against the wall and gradually turned from white to a sickly green while he twisted the ring finger of his right hand back and forth between the fingers of his left. I placed myself directly in his line of sight and wagged my fingers about in his face.

"Daroga," he gasped. Then he pushed me out of the way and staggered out the door of the storage room without so much as glancing out to ensure that no one was in the corridor outside. He proceeded dolefully down the hall, shoulders slumped, shuffling along, entirely forgetting that he was in full Opera ghost form. I drifted along a short distance behind him and if anyone thought it was strange it was perhaps not strange enough to garner remarks.

I thought, as we made our way down the hall, that we would proceed down, back below ground as we usually did, but instead Erik led me back up and out onto the rooftop once again where he proceeded to throw himself upon his knees despite the storm and crawl about, desperately scrounging with gaunt fingers for--

"What ring exactly are we looking for?" I managed to ask between thunder crashes.

"My ring," he answered feebly, and once I nodded absently (for the response had not provided any new information) he continued to repeat "my ring... my ring..." faintly and desperately as he scraped about for it.

"Why the hell did you give it to her if it was special to you?" I snapped when I was thoroughly soaked through and disgusted.

I did not hear his answer, but he shook his head hard from side to side and water flew from his thin hair. I shook my head as well but as the rain continued to fall, it did little good.

"I didn't," he gasped painfully as we came face-to-face on all-fours like two mongrel dogs in the street. "I didn't... give... I would never..." His face was moisture streaked and I had to wonder whether it was the rain or tears. In the near-darkness, it was impossible to tell.

"Erik," I tried again, "What ring?"

He shifted suddenly to sit dejectedly on his derriere, ignoring the pain which continued to pelt us. "My ring," he said absently again as if that explained it all. "My ring..." He twisted his ring finger with the fingers of the opposite hand as though he hoped the ring would abruptly reappear. "My gold ring," he continued, his voice growing still more faint.

"Oh," he groaned suddenly, and somehow his expression looked sicker still. "Oh, can it be?" He dragged himself to his knees again and crawled towards Apollo on his knees like a sinner seeking repentance. "Oh, horror! Is it possible?" He dragged himself to the edge of the roof and looked over into the street. "Oh, Daroga," he said turning to me, for I had followed him, "oh, can it be?" He grasped me by the lapels as though to shake me but then went suddenly limp.

"There, now, Erik," I said patting him confusedly on the back. "Everything will be all right."

He sniffed thickly. "We must...." He gestured helplessly and sniffed again. "To the street. Below."

"Of course, Erik. Whatever you say." Yes. To the street, then to a dry carriage which would take us to our flat, which was both warm and dry. Whatever troubled him would seem far better in dry clothing and after a hot meal. "It will be all right," I told him.

But I was a fool, I suppose. I had no idea what lay in store for me.

Erik bolted out the doors of the Opera into the street--still un-nosed, unmasked, and apparently oblivious to both these details. Staring upward into the driving rain, he barreled down the street sending what few Parisiennes were foolhardy enough to be out in such weather scattering. He blundered about in this fashion, seemingly blindly, until he reached the area below the statute of Apollo where he threw himself bodily to the ground and slithered about as though searching for the lost ring with every pore in his body.

"Oh my God," I heard myself utter, joining the ranks of the flummoxed and befuddled. I stood close to the Opera for shelter, though it did little to keep me out of the onslaught or rain, nor did it matter, as I was entirely drenched already, but I could not bring myself to wallow in the puddles on the Paris street. At least not at first. Not until Erik's near miss with a carriage driven at a swift trot did I resign myself to my fate and make my way into the boulevard.

"Come on, Erik," I said, slipping my arms beneath his and lifting him gently. "Too dangerous. Let's go."

"My ring," he blathered feebly. "My ring, Daroga. Leave me."

"Erik!" I shook him a little.

"Please, Daroga," he begged. He struggled a little, but weakly.

"I'll buy you another one," I offered.

He did not so much shake his head as throw his entire body back and forth. "No, Daroga! It would not be the same!"

"Erik," I warned, tightening my grip.

"Daroga," he whined back. Then without warning he whirled as though to escape me, but I did not anticipate his action and instead of letting go let myself be dragged. An instant later we splashed to the ground in a particularly wet indentation in the road.

"Merde!" I allowed myself the luxury of a curse before I prepared to get up from where I had fallen upon Erik. It was not as satisfying as I expected and I searched my memory for a more appropriate word. Before I could come up with it, however, my eyes lit upon a faint glimmer from the depths of a puddle.

"Erik!" I rolled off him and splashed through the street on my hands and knees. "Erik!" I yelled again, plunging my hand into the icy water.

He groaned behind me.

"Erik!" I bellowed, holding up the mutilated golden mess triumphantly as he rubbed his bruised ribs dejectedly. Then at once his expression brightened. His eyes gleamed as brightly as the metal blob in my hand filling his entire visage with a golden glow.

"Daroga!" He cried, almost incoherently, as he threw himself upon me. With one arm he hugged me desperately and pounded me on the back even as with the other he grasped my hand brutally and wrenched the pitiable metallic lump from my clutches. Then all at once he released me and, laughing aloud, turned and ran back towards the Opera. Before I could splash after him he'd darted back through the main doors. I was on his heels as, still laughing, he bolted down a carpeted hall leaving sodden footprints and shrieking maids in his wake.

I followed him at a run, laughing as well, all the way to the third cellar where he pushed the switch and fairly dove through the space that led to our hexagonal foyer. I dropped through the hatch behind him and landed....in a forest?

I stopped laughing at once. "What the hell?" I said aloud. Then I said nothing more for I was struck mute in my amazement. I stood within what was undoubtedly a forest.

Erik laughed at my befuddlement. "I forgot you hadn't seen it before," he said. "Isn't it wonderful?"

"What the hell?" I managed to repeat.

"It's a _forest,_ you ninny!

* * *

This is one of the parts I somehow stupidly FORGOT to put into the original story, but looking back I'm glad I did because I think this version is more amusing that my original idea. I hope you enjoyed it. Please leave a comment to let me know. Thanks so much, and it was nice to interact with you again. Please review.


	78. Deleted Scene: Erik's Ring pt 2

**Dedication:** To Mominator, who said (and I quote) "but . . . I want an explanation as to why that ring was so important to Erik."

**Author's Note:** This takes place MUCH later in the story--like, as part of the epilogue. That's right! It takes place near Rouen in the town where Erik's mother lives. Enjoy.

**Disclaimer:** I only own POTO in my wildest dreams. (Oh, and what wonderfully wild dreams they are!)

**Warning:** I am ashamed to admit this piece is not QUITE as funny at part 1 was. But I TRIED. (Please consider offering suggestions to make it funnier!)

* * *

I didn't even ask where we were going because it was obvious that Erik was in no mood to answer. He was so dead-set on going wherever it was that we were going that he lied to his mother outright even though as a grown man there was no real reason to do so. Of course, that naturally made me think that we were going carousing, but when I expressed my delight at the expedition, Erik scoffed condescendingly and asked if that was all I think about. Indeed! About what else _should _I have been thinking?

And so, in silence, we came to the little shop with the old rickety door and the dark windows, and slipped inside.

It was dark within and I stood somewhat stupidly, blinking while I waited for my eyes to adjust from the sunny street. A white-haired old man stood stooped over a counter, and at our entrance he looked up blinking as well as though he could not believe that anyone could have possibly entered through his door. Then his face brightened with recognition and he hurried over as quickly as his stooped back and brittle old legs would carry him.

"Erik, my boy!" he burst out. "Goodness, it's been years. How have you been? Oh, my my, but you look different. What's this we have here?" He had reached us at last and was staring almost cross-eyed at Erik's new nose. He didn't leave pause enough for Erik to answer however and continued immediately. "Oh, and I know you as well! You're Jameelah and Aloysius's boy aren't you? Darius, isn't it? I know your family--"

"Rasheed," I interrupted, and he looked a bit cross at me for that. "I'm Rasheed. Darius is my younger brother."

He peered at me carefully over his glasses. "You sure?"

"Yes, monsieur, I'm--" What kind of a question was that anyway? "Quite certain, sir."

He looked unconvinced. "Well, yes, all right then," he said shuffling back to the counter. Erik followed close on his heels. "Where is Darius then?" he continued.

"In Paris, monsieur," I replied, feeling all of ten years of age at most.

"Paris!" He let out a low whistle. "Imagine that. Jameelah and Aloysius's boy, off to Paris, eh? Well, let's hope it doesn't change him any. Nice kid, that Darius."

"Yes, monsieur," I said dutifully.

"We _all_ live in Paris, actually," Erik said, sliding into a chair I had not previously noticed and placing his chin on the counter to look upward at the old man childishly.

"Do you now?" Erik now had his full attention. "And what do you do in Paris, my boy?"

Erik grinned boyishly. "I work at the Paris Opera," he said.

"The Opera!" Everything was a revelation, apparently. "But I should have guessed that! Your mother. Such a singer! But shy." He shook his head. "Not at all like your father. I daresay you got your mother's voice and your father's bravado, no?"

"Something like that," Erik agreed. "But--" he paused uncomfortably. "But I don't sing. What I _meant _was I _work_ at the Opera. I'm not--"

"Hang in there, boy. You'll get your chance."

Erik glanced helplessly at me. I shrugged. Who cared? It was not as though the truth mattered in this situation, after all.

"So what brings you here, boy? Can't be just to visit an old man, eh?"

Erik smiled. "I suppose there is a bit more," he said evenly.

"And might it have anything to do with jewelry?"

"Of course," Erik answered, his grin widening.

The man was smiling too now, standing behind the counter and grinning down at Erik proudly. He pulled a chair around and sat and folded his hands upon the counter. "Now would we happen to be here to design the exquisite piece of jewelry that will someday soon grace the hand of the lovely lady you've decided will be your bride?"

Erik laughed aloud. "No, monsieur, not exactly."

"No?" he echoed. His ashen skin faded. "Why not, my boy?"

"I cannot say that I have found such a lady," Erik said evenly.

"No?" He shook his head and clucked his tongue. "Hang in there, boy," he said encouragingly with a pat and shake of Erik's shoulder. She'll come around."

"No," Erik tried again. "It's not that. It's-- I haven't found-- There isn't exactly a girl who I'd--" He sighed heavily and let his eyes roam the ceiling.

"Don't be so particular, boy! You meet a nice girl, you court her, you get married. That's all there is to it. Don't wait. Next thing you know you'll be old and what are you going to do then?"

Erik ducked his head once. "Thank you, monsieur. That is good advice, monsieur."

"You're right it's good advice. You don't have to tell me that. I'm the one that gave it to you. Don't you forget it!"

"Yes, monsieur."

"You go on back to Paris and you ask for that girl's hand in marriage, you hear me, boy?"

Erik looked helplessly at me. I pretended not to notice and ultimately, enjoyed his discomfort entirely. Eventually, he pretended to give in, but when the man began talking about fashioning a ring for the lady once again, Erik quickly changed the subject. "Sure, sure, but first.... you see... actually I've come to see you about this." His long, deft fingers descended into his pocket and returned with a shiny nugget which he placed with great care on the counter before him.

The old man squinted through his glasses, then over them, then pushed them up on his head and positioned his jeweler's hoop. Finally his confused old eyes found Erik's and save him a blank, befuddled expression.

"I need you to repair it," Erik said quietly.

The man squinted at the golden blob once again. "Repair it? My boy, in order to repair it I would have to be able to recognize it. What _is_ it?"

Erik blinked twice. "Why, it's--it's a ring!" he stuttered. "Anyone can see it's--" he held it up between his thumb and forefinger--"It's a ring!" When no recognition showed on the face of the other he gestured helplessly at his ring finger. "It's--." He felt silent.

The man picked up the mass and carried it to another table where he examined it carefully for a long time. Then he carried it back to Erik, gently cradling it in his palm. "One couldn't tell by looking at it, son," he said softly. "Whatever it once was, my advice is that you start over entirely."

Erik's eyes were wide, his mouth set in a straight, unhappy line. "No," he said softly.

"Well, there's really nothing else you can do," the man told him taking hold of the flattened golden object and gesturing with it. "First of all, there's nothing left of it's original shape to work with. Second, even if there was, the amount of craftsmanship that would go into such work.... you'd be better off to simply buy a new one. Tell you what I'll do. You choose something else--"

"No." Erik's voice was soft, gentle, but absolutely insistent.

"No? What do you mean, no, boy? There's no value in this in it's present condition. Look, I'll discount your new ring if you leave this with me and--"

Erik shook his head vehemently.

"Come on, son, let's be reasonable. The only thing left to do with this mess it is melt it down for scrap and--"

"No!" It was a forceful whisper. "Absolutely not. I'll...." he flailed about for words. "I'll just keep it as it is, then." Erik deftly plucked the blob out of the man's fingers and re-deposited it in his pocket.

"But son, you can't be hoping someone else will be willing--"

"I'm not hoping anything.

"What do you plan to do with it then?"

"I'm not planning anything other than I said. I'll just keep it as it is."

"It's entirely unusable as it is, unless you're going to sell it to a jeweler for--"

"So help me God, do not say 'scrap' again, please!" Erik's voice was terse, on the verge of breaking, and his face was pale as alabaster.

"Obviously it's got some...." The man trailed off as he noticed Erik wasn't listening. I peered closely at Erik's eyes, which shone strangely.

"Thank you," Erik said. He stood mechanically and took a shuffling step towards me, towards the door. I turned; I was pleased to be going.

"Let me see it again," the man called after him, and Erik glanced over his shoulder. The man waggled his fingers at him until Erik turned sheepish and shuffled back to the counter and dropped it hesitantly but reverently into his upturned palm. "What's the story with this piece, anyway? Special to you, eh?"

"_You don't recognize it_?"

Despite Erik's obvious levity, I had to bite my tongue not to laugh; it was utterly unrecognizable as a ring, let alone what type a ring it had once been.

The man squinted at the pathetic metallic mess, then glanced back up at Erik.

"You designed it, I believe," Erik said pointedly.

"Did I now?"

"It was my father's."

"Oh, my...." He dragged each syllable out seemingly forever. "This? This is... _that_ ring? Oh my."

Erik nodded slightly.

"Good Lord, boy! What did you do to it?"

"It--" Erik fairly squirmed. "It...." He mumbled something undiscernable.

The old man was genuinely confused. "It _what_?"

"It..." Erik stopped and cleared his throat noisily. Then all at once he sat up very straight, fixed his eyes upon a point on the wall and said in a rush of breath, "It fell seventeen stories, monsieur."

An uncomfortable silence followed.

A very long, uncomfortable silence.

I shifted my weight from foot to foot.

Somewhere in the shop a clocked ticked. Interminably.

I waited.

"It fell... did you say.... seventeen? Stories?"

Erik nodded without making eye contact.

"And you expect me to fix it?"

Erik nodded again.

"And why exactly should I do that?"

Erik looked surprised. His eyes flitted to the man's face and away again rapidly. He shrugged.

"First, if it were even possible--ah, but let's speak of that! This damage is so severe as to be irreversible. And even if--"

"But you told me," Erik interrupted finally "You told me years ago that gold is infinitely..." He gestured.

"Malleable," the old jeweler supplied.

"Yes," Erik agreed absently. "And...." he made a motion with both hands, one drawing away from the other. "And... stretchable."

"Ductile." It might as well have been an insult from his tone.

"Yes," Erik agreed. "That's it. And it must be true, for look at the way in which it's been.... reshaped. Surely if it can be bent _into_ this condition, it can be bent _back_."

"Mm," the other returned tersely. "Indeed." He snatched it from Erik's fingers once again. "_Bent_ is hardly the word for it. _Splattered_ almost suits it."

Erik squinted as if he expected to be struck sharply on the head.

"Seventeen stories?"

Erik nodded, still squinting.

"Supposing I could even fix it--and I'm not saying that I can, but supposing I could...."

Erik nodded harder. He was obviously holding his breath.

"How could I ever entrust it to you again?"

Erik winced. "It won't happen again, monsieur," he said. "I'll be very careful."

"You'll be careful, will you?"

Erik nodded forcefully. He looked paler than ever and his skin shone with nervous moisture.

"Why weren't you careful with it already?"

"I was, monsieur."

"You were careful with it?"

Erik nodded again. His skin looked the texture of paste.

"_This_ is what happens when you're careful with it? What happens to the things you're careless with?" Erik sat stone still and did not respond like a child accepting his punishment.

"You'll be careful!" the jeweler scoffed. "If you had the ability to be careful, you wouldn't be in this position now!"

Erik looked up and met the man's eyes at last. "It was a lady's fault," he said in a rush. "There was a lady like you said and yes she was very special to me and to prove that she wanted to wear the ring which I did not want to let out of my possession but she wanted it desperately and I allowed her to wear it and she didn't take care of it and she let it fall seventeen stories from the roof of the Opera and that, monsieur, is why I am not going to marry her, regardless of your sound advice not to be too particular." He drew a sharp breath. "I assure you, monsieur, such a thing will _never_ happen again."

There was a silence after Erik's long-winded admission.

At last the old man said, "I believe that's rather a sound decision, son."

Erik nodded curtly without making eye contact.

The man stared at Erik's desperate features for a long moment. "I suppose I've got that old mold stored somewhere," he muttered at last.

Erik's complexion literally changed color. His eyes swiveled to meet the other's. "You think you can repair it?"

"Something like that, son."

"You're not going to scrap it?" The man held out his hand. "Promise?" Erik hesitated and the jeweler pried the ring from his white-knuckled hand. "You're not going to melt it down, are you? If you do, don't.... don't... don't add to it. It has to be.... the same..."

"You go on home to your mother now, son."

"But you have to promise," Erik babbled. "First, promise me...."

"Come on, Erik," I said, taking him by the arm. "Let's go back to you mother's place."

"But don't-- please... make sure you--"

"Thank you," I called over my shoulder to the jeweler.

"You're quite welcome, Darius," he called back. "You tell Jameelah and Aloysius hello for me, will you?"

* * *

**Shameless Begging**: Wait a second!! What do you mean 46 of you read Erik's Ring pt. 1 and only 2 people bothered to comment? Did it suck THAT BAD? I thought you'd laugh!! Don't forget, I LIVE on reviews, and I hardly ever post anymore... Can't ya tell that means I'm STARVING? PS: Please send suggestions on how to make this a little funnier.


	79. Deleted Scene: Erik's Secret

**Author's Note:** Hey everyone! I think summer is about to FINALLY kick in (please? Oh please! How I would love to have summer arrive at last!) so I'm writing once again. I recently posted a chapter to my "Harrison High" thing and am working on that one as often as possible. I finally finished and cleaned up this little deleted scene as well, so here it is. I'm working on another piece of fan fiction but not for Phantom-I happened to notice that there are only three-yeah, THREE (3)! things posted here for Moby Dick. I guess I can understand it, sort of, because Ahab's not the easiest character to feel sympathetic toward and there really aren't any women in the original and romance is so often the focus of fan fiction, but I decided I just had to post something for it since Melville is like my all-time hero. (Well, not exactly, but whatever.) Anyway, for now, here's another little Don Juan Triumphant deleted scene since I can't get my life together and write my complete Phantom retelling yet. In this one we learn that Erik, great seducer of women who in his spare time enjoys composing, playing pranks, and making outlandish bets, also has another pastime that no one knows about, not even his dear friend Rasheed. Until now.

**Disclaimer:** Always LOCK your bedroom DOOR!

**Humor Notice:** This one is not AS funny as say, the flood scene. Oh well. I did the best I could with the topic at hand.

* * *

"When are you going to be back?" Erik asked as I tugged my coat on.

I shrugged. "I don't know. Depends on her mood. You sure you don't want to come along? We could invite her sister-"

"Really, Daroga, I'm certain."

I was concerned at this. Why would Erik turn down an evening out with me and a couple of women to stay home and _read_. I put my hand on his forehead.

He swatted me away. "Please, Daroga!"

"I was just checking-"

"You were just blocking my view," he cut me off and pointedly lifted his book toward his face.

I sighed heavily. But he hadn't felt warm. My heart sunk. "You're not having that... 'nothing happening' thing happen again are you?"

"Bite your tongue!"

"Indeed. I was only asking, Erik."

"Well, stop asking and get along with whatever you're doing. I'm _try_ing to read, Daroga."

"Whatever you say, Erik." I turned and trudged to the door. I seriously considered changing my mind and staying in. As a matter of fact, the only reason I did not immediately announce my intention not to go was the fact that my lady friend would be waiting for me and there didn't seem to be any way to send word that an emergency had arisen and I could not make it. I supposed I could manufacture an after-the-fact excuse, a matter of international import, some scandal involving a Persian official, but it felt too much like work. It was easier to simply meet her and do what needed to be done. I might have a short go of it. There are a myriad of ways of pleasuring a woman, and some are faster than others. Of course, no doubt once I got started I would not want to stop. I decided to leave my options open and decide on a whim once I saw how the evening played out. Perhaps I would return hurriedly and perhaps I would tarry a bit, but not all night. After all, I had a responsibility if Erik were ill...

"Will you be gone long?"

Was he reading my mind? I could explain to her that he was ill and I needed to care for him. Then again, such a statement could backfire and send her hurrying to our place to dote on _him_ instead of _me_. "I might return early," I said noncommittally.

His eyebrows shot up. "Indeed? Whatever for? Are you two having _problems_?"

"Goodness, no. Of course not. I only worried that-"

"Daroga, you must get over this worrying about me nonsense. I have told you I am fine. I think I may finish this chapter and retire early. If you return, you shall return to sit awake alone."

I nodded. That didn't sound particularly amusing. "If you're tired, I might just stay out all night," I amended. He did look a bit tired. Matter of fact, he looked even more tired as soon as I uttered the words.

"Oh, yes, Daroga. Damnably tired. Exhausted. I think I shall go to bed immediately." He marked his page in the book, laid it aside, and rubbed his eyes sleepily.

"Have a good night, Erik." I went out the door and closed it behind me. Two steps down the stairs, I stopped. Something was wrong. Erik was _never_ tired. Of course, that isn't possible as everyone tires eventually, everyone sleeps. But Erik didn't admit to feeling tired any more than he liked to admit to feeling ill, until it became obvious and inevitable. Erik detests showing signs of weakness, or even normalcy. I turned back. Erik had been a little over-eager to proclaim his fatigue, but perhaps it was attributable to me. Hadn't I said I would stay out all night if he was tired? But why would Erik wish to get rid of me?

I tromped heavily down the stairs, a little heavier than usual. Let him think perhaps I was disappointed or angry at having to go alone... Let him think anything he wished, so long as he thought I was gone. I opened the door and stepped heavily out it, then, carefully, lightly on my toes like a dancer, I stepped back in and closed the door silently.

I felt my heart rate quicken, though there was nothing at all dangerous about what I was about to do. Strangely, this was more thrilling than any situation in which a real danger might present itself. I worked my forefinger into my shoe and removed it soundlessly from my foot, then repeated the procedure and found a place on the stairs to stow my footwear, then crept back up the steps on my toes using the railing heavily to avoid putting my full weight on the steps.

At the top of the stairs I debated the merits of throwing the door open and catching him in the act of whatever it was he wanted to hide from me versus creeping in quietly. Then I cursed myself for not simply having pretended to have forgotten something, saving the quiet return for later. I finally opted to creep BACK down the stairs to get my shoes, lest he be doing nothing unusual at all and I would have to explain why I was standing around in my socks. I put them back on at the top of the stairs and walked in. Erik was no longer in his favorite chair, and the book remained, marked, where he'd placed it earlier. Perhaps I was overreacting.

But I wasn't. I found him, sure enough, reaching deep into the back of his wardrobe carefully. What might he be looking for? The codpiece? The ladies' undergarments? Certainly not his will!

I leaned in the doorway and waited. It was only a moment before he sensed my presence and turned.

"Looking for something?" I asked him.

He placed both hands over his heart, but not before shoving something further back into the darkness. "Good Lord, Daroga. You startled me half to death."

"I'll be careful not to let it happen twice," I said without a smile. "What are you looking for?"

"My _pajamas_," he said with an eye roll. "What _else_? I _told _you I was going to bed."

"Indeed?"

"Yes of course."

"You're going to bed?"

"Certainly."

"Just as soon as you find your pajamas?"

"Most assuredly."

"These pajamas?" I held them up. They'd been folded neatly at the foot of the bed in plain view.

"Oh, thank God!" He snatched them from my hand without leaving the place where he crouched. "Thank God for you, Daroga. I never would have found them. Now if you will be so kind-" (he yawned loudly) "to close my door on your way out, I am utterly fatigued beyond description."

"Of course, Erik," I said evenly. "Have a restful night."

"I'll-_try_," he snapped. "If anyone ever _leaves_."

"I'm going, I'm going," I acquiesced as I headed out the door.

But he certainly was adamant about my going, wasn't he?

I yawned. "Come to think of it, I'm a bit drowsy myself. Perhaps I'll call it a night and stay in."

A woman, and I dare say any man other than I, never would have noticed the imperceptible changes that occurred on Erik's face. His eyes didn't widen, his forehead didn't crinkle, perspiration did not break out on his forehead. All the same, I saw the change and knew he was disappointed, perhaps even horrified, at the prospect of my staying in.

I enjoyed it. I yawned again, a long, loud, satisfying yawn, and when I was finished I stretched and rubbed the back of my neck. "It hit me out of nowhere. Can't figure why I'm so tired all the sudden."

"Drink some water," Erik suggested. "If it came on all at once, you're not tired, you're dehydrated."

"No, no," I said shaking my head. "I'm not thirsty at all. Just..." (yawn) "tiiiiiired."

"But there's a lady waiting for you," he said quickly. If you don't go, you'll disappoint her!" he insisted helplessly.

I yawned so severely I was conveniently unable to answer him.

"Besides, I'm feeling... I'm not feeling so well. I won't be good company at all. One never knows. Could disturb you greatly."

Dear God, he was really desperate to pull _that_, wasn't he?

"Well," I yawned, "Maybe I can stay the night at her place. I'll just need some time to pack a bag..."

He moaned and shooed me out.

"I'm going, I'm going," I continued. "Where is my knapsack do you suppose? I could have sworn-"

"A moment," Erik interrupted. He slammed his wardrobe closed and bolted from the room with a retched gag not unlike the one the night of the poker game.

"Are you sure you're okay?" I called. "I can send word that you need me here."

"Certainly not, Daroga. I'll be fine, really. Something I ate, I am sure. Go on. Enjoy yourself."

"I'll feel dreadfully guilty."

"Go now!"

I clucked my tongue and moved to the door of the flat.

"If you're certain, Erik-"

"Leave me!" he bellowed back. A little too clearly I ascertained. I decided Erik was seeing someone behind my back, someone about whom he did not want me to know. Christine? But no. If Christine came back to visit, Erik would have had to play Opera ghost, and OG was dead. I couldn't think of a woman Erik wouldn't want me to know he was with, so I left in a state of utter consternation.

It plagued me on my walk to my lady's place, and it distracted me mightily during our tryst. I could scarcely focus. I pleasured her at a speed previously unknown to all of Paris and no doubt set a record of some variety for the speed at which I returned home as well.

The time that I gained in running, however, I lost when I had to stand on the porch and wait until my breathing returned to normal as it is nearly impossible to sneak while panting.

After I slipped my shoes off, I turned the knob quietly, soundlessly. The door opened to reveal Erik sitting in his favorite chair as before. He had yet to change into his pajamas. No woman was present with him. His attention was fixed on something multicolored lying in his lap. He was holding two long slender rods in his hands and moving them back and forth at a regular rhythm.

Hee sensed my presence and quickly dumped the multicolored whatever-it-was on the floor between his chair and the wall. He looked up at me guiltily.

"Oh, Daroga, you're back!" He grinned falsely. "I'm so glad," he continued. "I woke up after only a very short time and found myself unable to fall back asleep!"

"So you got up and got dressed again?"

"Of course, Daroga. You know I'm not one for sitting around in my pajamas. It is undignified."

"Indeed." As he spoke I had moved to his door and I took the opportunity to glance in. The pajamas were lying on the floor outside the wardrobe. If I'm not mistaken, they were lying RIGHT where he had been squatting during our last exchange. "Indeed. It's so much easier to simply never put the pajamas on," I concluded aloud.

"Right. Certainly. Of course."

I scanned the wardrobe. Nothing was out of sorts except that a few brightly colored skeins of yarn were lying on the floor.

Yarn?

I meandered through the flat stopping at my own room and rummaging a bit through my own clothing to find my pajamas, which I carried with me to continue our exchange, so as to explain where I had been when I had walked by his room.

"Going to bed?" he asked pointedly, looking at the pajamas in my hand.

I shrugged. "I might." I watched his eyes carefully. He scrutinized me heavily. "I may just laze around a bit, though." I waved a hand at the sofa as though I might take up residence there. "Surely you'll want some company having found yourself unable to sleep," I offered.

He smiled benevolently at me. "Apologies, Daroga. I was just about to turn in for good this time. I daresay sleep shall not elude me again." He leapt up and kicked at something near the foot of his chair, then hurried out.

I admit I was dreadfully curious about the brightly colored bundle Erik had quickly tossed to the floor. I crossed the room and peered over his chair.

"Daroga!" I nearly jumped out of my skin when he called to me so sharply. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, nothing, Erik. I thought you dropped something is all."

"I dropped nothing."

"Perhaps I am mistaken."

"Perhaps I shall stay up a bit," he said half-heartedly.

"Oh, don't stay awake on my account," I countered feebly. "I was just about to turn in."

"Ah."

I shuffled off to my room promptly as it was obvious that Erik would not leave the parlor as long as he suspected I might snoop around it.

I dressed for bed hurriedly, extinguished my light and lay beneath my sheets listening to Erik. I would take the greatest of self-control to remain awake while I waited for him to fall asleep. After that, it would be easy. At home in his own bed, Erik is a heavy sleeper. Darius used to joke that we could have brought the entire brass section from the Opera symphony to the flat to entertain in the parlor and it would not wake Erik until we invited them into his room and even then he would have waved them away sleepily and turned over once again. So I knew that once he drifted off I could explore unhindered. It was waiting for Erik to doze that required extreme patience. Erik may be difficult to wake, but he is long and difficult in getting to sleep as well, and so I waited and waited while he turned over and about and made and remade his bed then lay quietly until I almost got up-but he sat up abruptly and fluffed his pillow roughly and then lay down again with a sigh. I held perfectly still and pretended to be sleeping.

Erik got up and shuffled to out of his bedroom and through the flat, no doubt for a drink of water (or rum) which he swallowed noisily with a loud gasp of "aaah!" at the end. I giggled into my pillow. Erik went back to his room cursing under his breath about something as he went. Once he was bedded down again, I listened to him smacking his lips and then turning over and over for perhaps another three quarters of an hour. I wondered how anyone could possibly be so uncomfortable in a bed. He sighed again then fell silent.

At long last, Erik was silent. I counted to one hundred, then counted to one hundred again. No sound from Erik. I slipped out of bed and crept to my door. Silence.

I listened. Nothing.

I coughed. Erik did not stir.

Safe.

I darted nimbly on my toes to the parlor, lit the lamp beside Erik's chair and reached to the place on the floor where he had dumped his colorful bundle.

Nothing.

Damn.

Grumbling under my breath I tiptoed to Erik's door and made my way inside.

A beam of light fell on Erik as I entered the room. He was on his side with the pillow bunched up beneath him and the thumb of his right hand in his mouth like an infant. I tiptoed to the wardrobe and opened it. In the darkness I could not see the interior and had to rely on my sense of touch. I pawed through his clothing to the back.

The sheets rustled behind me and I glanced over my shoulder. Erik had moved but not awakened. I felt the texture of yarn in the back of the wardrobe and wondered for the second time that evening what Erik might be doing with yarn. A sound behind me startled me so severely I felt my insides leap. Only my long years of sneaking around with Erik prevented me from screaming aloud.

But it was only Erik snoring, his mouth having fallen open when he rolled onto his back. Still, it was enough to panic me into rushing my search. I grabbed a mass of yarn-textured stuff from the back of the wardrobe and darted back to my room making such a racket as I went that I am certain that only Erik's hard-sleeping saved me from being caught.

Back in my room I unrolled the hastily wrapped bundle and found that the bundle itself was apparently the secret all along. Oh my word! Erik has been _knitting_!

**Author's Note:** This one was originally called "Erik's Socks" but I decided not to give it away and called it Erik's Secret instead. But Erik has some other secrets, so if I decide to post about those later as well, I'll change this one back and call it Erik's Socks again.

**Shameless Begging:** Please leave me a review. I would very much appreciate it!


	80. Blooper Reel: hand at the level of your

Dear friends: Back when I initially posted chapter 62 of The Real Don Juan Triumphant, madamefaust commented, **"I know it couldn't happen because of story-telling impediments, but I would have LOVED for Erik to wander into Rasheed and Raoul's path and for Rasheed to bitch him out for being out of bed when he's supposed to be resting, it would be too funny."** As I have been lately posting deleted scenes whenever I get a moment, and I as I feel the world is not yet QUITE ready for Erik and Rasheed slash that was also once alluded to by madamefaust, I decided to go ahead and run with this idea. Because it would have completely altered the end of the story, it's not so much a deleted scene as a scene from the bloopers reel which has entirely spiraled out of control because there was no one there to yell "CUT!"

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Before we begin, a brief review. Chapter 62 started off like this:

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_Certainly I could detail for you our long and grueling journey into the bowels of the Opera. I could speak in greater detail about our eavesdropping on Milfroid's police investigation as they discovered Monclair (perhaps due to guilt that his replacement might have compromised Erik's privacy, or perhaps owing to a habit of which I was not aware or a reckless choice to experiment with a bit of morphine from the store donated to Erik's woes) was found on the floor so intoxicated as to appear dead. I could detail for you our encounter with Jérôme the rat catcher, how we narrowly escaped the wretched 'shade in the felt hat' by throwing ourselves to the ground at just the right moment, how someone stole our shoes while I was opening the entrance to the mirrored foyer which Erik's forest now occupied...but all of that is provided in glorious detail in Monsieur Gaston Leroux's account, for this part I told to him in precise detail and he ate it up, practically salivating at every facet as journalists will often do._

_As Raoul and I traveled the distance to the house on the lake, I composed stories of Erik, each more terrifying than the last._

_I had identified Erik as the trapdoor lover before we even pressed through the mirror. I warned Raoul that the Opera was full of trap doors and trick walls and false bottoms. A sudden burst of creativity attributed the architectural design to Erik's hand, and a brief recollection of an early history lesson added the detail that he performed much of his work in secret during the time construction ceased during the war. How old would Erik have to be, I chuckled to myself, remembering our earlier conversation. Fortunately, the boy's grasp on history did not exceed mine, and he did not question me._

_I lit the dark lantern that we regularly left by this door and passed it over the walls as though I suspected we might not be alone. Truth be told, were I to encounter Erik in the passage just then, the game would have been over immediately as Raoul would have been witness to my chastising Erik soundly for being out of bed. But Erik was not here, and I tried to comfort myself with the fact that he was resting comfortably (for morphine works wonders) below._

_I remembered the rope I concealed within my coat and warned Raoul that Erik carried a length of rope tied like a hangman's noose which he could throw with impeccable aim around the throats of those he wished to strangle. He learned that in India, I said. I insisted that the vicomte pull button his coat closed and pull up his lapel forward and his collar up so his face was more than half obscured. I amused myself by insisting that he keep his hand at the level of his eyes as though about to fire his pistol in order to throw off the strangler's noose when it came. When Raoul made mention of the lake, I frightened him away from the possibility of ever crossing it by embellishing my tale of Erik's near drowning of me with his breathing reed. I considered all the things a master mason might be able to conceive had he unlimited time and resources and added wild imaginations to the Opera cellars._

_I told him of the night the chandelier crash, how Erik was surely behind it but had denied it when I confronted him. And to match Raoul's story to Christine's, in case they compared stories later, I added a tragic past which left Erik predominantly without a sense of morality but still retaining enough humanity to desperately wish for love. I recounted my encounter with Erik the night he abducted Christine and claimed that Erik knocked me out cold preventing me from rescuing her. I painted a picture of Erik desperate to be married to Christine Daae, and Christine Daae terrified of Erik. When we arrived, it was my goal that Raoul take Christine away without any question or discussion. They could discuss the matter between themselves when they were married to each other, and if things didn't match up, they could argue for the rest of their lives for all I cared._

_I described Erik as a master of sorcery, capable of making himself disappear at will, capable of shooting fire from his fingertips and able to see in absolute darkness. I described every talent Erik truly had (with the exception of that one, of course!) and multiplied tenfold. Erik had had asked for a past as a political assassin, but went further still. I made him into a mass-murderer in gladiator-style feats against warriors twice his strength. In Persian-accented French, the stories took on a mysterious and foreboding tone. By the time I reached the third cellar entrance to the home where Erik had re-hanged the unfortunate Joseph Buquet, I was quite over-proud of my story-telling abilities._

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And here, my dears, is where the story goes entirely awry!

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I was just in the middle of reminding Raoul de Chagny to keep his hand at the level of his eyes when something stirred in the darkness and caught my eye. I stopped mid-sentence. "Careful! Careful! Hand at the level of—" I froze. I squinted into the darkness. We were far too far below to encounter the police or the shade. Who could possibly be there in the darkness?

Raoul and I pressed ourselves against the wall. It was too late to close the dark lantern, and I cursed myself inwardly for carrying it at all. Surely by now we were seen; it was a pretense to pretend to hide now. Simultaneously constructing a number of different tales I would tell depending on who moved before us in the darkness, I slowly brought the red beam of my lantern toward the place where I could barely make out a dark form.

"Merde!" I blurted. "Damn!" Before I realized what I'd done, I'd let the lantern clatter to the ground and moved forward to grabbing distance. "What the hell, Erik? Where are you supposed to _be_? Where are you _supposed_ to be? _Where_ did you and I _agree_ you would be?" I seized him by his lapels and shook him soundly.

"Well, well, I…" he mouthed silently in the dark for a moment. "I must admit I don't exactly recall, Daroga. Not here, I would assume, as you seem most displeased."

"For God's sake, Erik, you're supposed to be in bed!"

"I woke up in the living room…" he slurred confusedly.

"Jesus Christ!" Before I managed to shout that he'd should have just stayed there, I realized what I had done. I had completely forgotten to watch my language in the presence of the nobleman. Remembering myself after having blurted obscenity and immediately subsequent blasphemy was too late, as in addition to both of those, I had apparently also revealed that I was not too terribly afraid of Erik. Too late, I realized. I dared to shoot a glance at Raoul.

Raoul still held his prop pistol at the level of his eyes.

I cleared my throat and released Erik's collar, smoothed his lapels and dusted him lightly. "Erm, sorry," I managed. "I… er…" I struggled to produce something to say to Erik in front of Raoul that would make everything I'd just told him coincide with everything I'd just said to Erik. Unfortunately, there really isn't a single phrase that reconciles _He's to be feared above all else. He'd as soon kill us as look at us_ with _Damn it, dear friend. Get yourself immediately back to the bed into which I tucked you, before you make yourself sicker! _I stalled for time. "So, uh… you see," I began. As I did so, I backed a step away from Erik, who seemed to be quite capable of standing on his own, despite a rather drunken expression on his face.

A terrible sound like a very-near explosion startled me severely.

A gunshot fired in the darkness, lit the passageway for an instant to a blinding flash followed by darkness deeper still. My soul leapt within me at the sound, and my heart pounded rapidly long after while I wondered how in the world Raoul had managed to make the gun fire when I had been so, so sure it was a prop.

I was unable to see, scarcely able hear. I felt my mouth fall open. I glanced back and forth between the space where Raoul stood and the space where Erik stood but saw nothing in either direction. A muffled groan from Erik's location drove me to action. I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled to him blindly.

"Erik?" I asked, raising my voice over the dull sound in my ears. "Erik, where are you?" I found him by touch. "You stupid idiot!" I yelled at Raoul. "You've shot him twice in two days. What the hell is the matter with you?" Erik moaned softly. I wrapped an arm around him, cradled his head and touched his face with the fingers of my opposite hand. "Erik, are you all right? Erik? Say something."

He panted uncertainly. "It's… unusual, Daroga," he said. His soft voice was mystified. "It is… either it is much, much worse, or else far better." He paused in speaking but writhed in my arms. "Either it is the end, or else he has missed me entirely."

"What the hell?"

"I… it is not at all like last night. Last night was pain beyond words, a hot searing sensation that spread instantly throughout my body. This…" Here he laughed slightly. I was able to make out the form of him in the darkness as my eyes readjusted after the flash. "Daroga, I feel nothing at all."

"My god, can you _move_?"

"Yes, yes, I can move, Daroga. I just can't feel where it—"

"Blanks!" I screamed, remembering. "They're prop pistols loaded with blanks!"

"Blanks!" Raoul cried after me. "You've given me nothing but blanks to stalk the deadliest man ever to cross the ocean? Are you _insane_?"

I coughed. "Oh, well, that," I said. "It's er… I…" Honestly, there was no way to explain.

"Blanks!" Erik giggled, finally catching on. He ran his hands over his torso as if to verify the veracity of my claim. "What a fun idea, Daroga!" He then ran his hands over my torso and in an instant found my pistol in my coat pocket. He aimed it into the darkness. He raised his voice: "Raoul de Chagny, I accept your challenge!"

"No, Erik," I said, reaching for him.

Too late. "Bang," he said flatly just before he pulled the trigger.

A second flash of white light rendered my eyes entirely useless once again.

"Damn!" I yelled. Erik giggled nonsensically. "Raoul? Monsieur de Chagny?"

"I'm here," he said disgustedly. I could hear him scrabble about on the ground and carefully get to his feet. He retrieved my dark lantern from the place where I'd dropped it upon encountering Erik.

I squinted in the red light. Raoul de Chagny stood over the place where Erik and I huddled together on the ground, one of my arms still around him from when I'd gathered him up, and my other hand clutching his wrist from my tardy attempt to prevent him from firing the gun.

"He doesn't look so dangerous," Raoul said to me, matter-of-factly, but I sensed his implied sarcasm. "Though he certainly is as gruesome as Christine described."

I sucked in a breath to tell the boy off for such a remark, but bit my tongue. After all, we had quite a lot of explaining to do, and I didn't need more trouble than I already had. Erik giggled, and I figured he'd missed the cruel nature of the remark.

"Just to be safe," Raoul concluded, "tie him up."

"Oh, that won't be necessary, I assure you. See how subdued he is?" I looked in his direction, gestured with my shoulders.

Erik chuckled. "Sub-dued," he repeated with a slur.

"We're not taking any chances," Raoul insisted. "You promised you'd help me find Christine, and that hasn't happened yet!"

"Yes, yes," I attempted to appease him, getting carefully to my feet.

"Well, don't set him free!" Raoul protested. "I said tie him up!"

"I haven't anything to tie him with," I complained. I certainly wasn't going to admit to the length of rope I carried inside my coat. "Suppose I just hold onto him?" I started to lift Erik to his feet as he was laughing too hard to get up of his own accord.

"No!" Raoul cut me off. "Use your cravat. In such situations, one has to improvise."

I surrendered and untied my cravat to bind Erik's hands by the wrists.

"Behind his back," Raoul said. "He can work the knot loose with his teeth otherwise."

"No, no. We have to walk all the way to the house on the lake like this. Unless you're planning to carry him, he needs his hands in front of him. Suppose he falls and busts his face."

Raoul made a noise that sounded like a laugh.

"He's rather got a point, Daroga," Erik interrupted.

"Shut up," I told him, and I gave him a little shove in the direction of the entrance we sought.

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Reviews are always very, very welcome. Please feel free to suggest additional places where bloopers might occur if you'd like to see them. I'm too busy to start a new story, but can't quite stand to never write. I should also ask is there anyone out there up for a bit of (one time only) Erik and Rasheed slash? If you're not interested, you can simply not read it, but I want to be sure to avoid offending anyone. Comments please?


	81. Blooper Reel: Mouseketeer roll call

Well, it appearst that either no one is reading or else no one is commenting. Given that, as soon as I finish the bloopers, I'll go ahead and post the part referenced in the last blooper bit so MadameFaust can view it. Everyone else, you've been given ample warning if you don't like that type of stuff (or if you don't want to see this version of Erik so engaged.)

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Here goes!

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At length, we reached the third cellar and the place where Erik had re-hanged poor Joseph Buquet.

I considered convincing Raoul to drop through, then going a different route with Erik to avoid any explanation. Let him reach a conclusion that Erik and the Persian worked together to capture him, I didn't care. Until a moment later I realized he would have to be set free sometime, and he would be more apt to tell the angrier he was with us.

I dropped first into the treed foyer and held out my arms. A startled yelp from Erik suggested that Raoul had pushed him into the opening. I caught him and Raoul in turn, again forcing myself not to let the annoying boy fall to the floor on his own.

Raoul moved the beam of the lantern over the wall. "The wall is a mirror," he said.

"Isn't it delightful," Erik asked.

"It's horrific," I answered. "Let's get out of here." I pushed the wall to the Louis Philippe room and staggered into it.

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***(the story derails again right here. Suppose Erik had locked the doors when he went out rather than when Christine arrived. All THREE of them would be trapped in the torture chamber until Christine found the pouch with the keys in it! Should I write that version, too?***

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"Christine?" Erik's voice said with surprise.

"Erik!" She sounded gleeful. "Oh, Erik, I've changed my mind. I'm so sorry about every—"

"Christine?"

"Raoul!"

Raoul glanced at Erik and then at me.

"Christine!" I said inanely.

Christine's eyes turned dark as she turned to Raoul. "The Persian," she whispered.

"Christine!" Erik said in vague wonder.

Christine bit her lip. "Oh… Erik," she said with great worry.

"Enough!" I screamed, or they might stand there repeating one another's names all day. "Enough, enough! This way!" I ushred everyone toward the door to the parlor. Raoul wrapped his arms protectively about Christine and proceeded in the direction I indicated. Erik stuck his tongue out at me and make ridiculous faces until I flicked his ear with my finger. Then he proceeded into the parlor grumbling under his breath.

It took some time to sort out the details, especially as Erik and I were making up parts of them as we went along. To further complicate things, Erik's additions to my story were not at all helpful as he had apparently doubled his laudanum dose and added some opium to deaden the pain of his gunshot wound and in addition made himself ridiculously silly. I'm fairly certain Raoul recognized Erik's yellow eyes in the tunnel as being the same yellow eyes on his balcony the night before, but to his credit, he did sit quietly and allow us to attempt to explain. I indicated that Erik had been following Raoul for several weeks (it wasn't actually a lie!) to determine whether he was worthy of Christine. I claimed that ultimately Erik had concluded that Raoul and Christine deserved to be together (again, not even a lie!) and had come to Raoul's home the night before to let him know this (it's so much easier to tell the truth sometimes!) and to assist him in persuading his brother to allow it so they couple did not have to run away and marry in secret. (See? Simple.) When Raoul scoffed that Philippe would not allow himself to be convinced in such a manner even by his own father, Erik interjected "I thought of that, actually," but I silenced him with a poke to the ribs. I was filling up the time with a lot of nonsense to deliberately delay the point at which the boy might ask questions I did not care to attempt to answer, such as why, if all that were true, I had described Erik as I had on the way here, and why I had armed him with a prop pistol and led him to believe it was a real one. The last thing I wanted was to open a god-damned dialogue with the boy that would trick me into revealing still more of the truth than I already stupid had!

I admitted that the plan had gone terribly awry when Raoul saw Erik before he was supposed to and fired his gun at Erik.

"I knew it!" Raoul cried out triumphantly. "I knew it wasn't just a lousy cat!"

"Would that it had been," Erik mused quietly.

"But, but why didn't you show yourself then? Why didn't you simply explain? We could have sent for medical attention and you could have attempted to convince Philippe while we waited for the doctor!"

Christine's rapt attention to the story had been broken, however, at the admission of the shooting. She got up from her place beside Raoul on the sofa and moved to perch upon the ottoman by Erik's chair. "Oh my poor Erik," she murmured. "He shot you? Where? Show me where?"

Raoul was so engaged in argument that Erik should have explained himself immediately from the rooftop or the drainpipe that he scarcely noticed Christine's fawning. She hadn't yet noticed the inconsistency of Erik's willingness to go barefaced before Raoul and before me and was instead simply cooing to Erik, "Let me take care of you. It's all right. It's all right, dear, it's only Christine."

"All right, here it is," Erik announced, bolting up from his chair so suddenly the movement caused him pain despite his many medicines. He winced and sucked in his breath and gripped his shoulder over the bullet wound. Christine cooed and reached for him, but he brushed her hands aside. "Christine feels sorry for me," he gestured, "as you can surely see. First it was sorry that I live in such a place as this, and then it was sorry that I look like this, then sorry for this thing she'd done and sorry for that thing as well. Now it's," he nodded at his hand, which he had been unable to keep Christine from grabbing hold of, "sorry my fiancé shot you. If we continue in this manner, I fear her guilt will prevent her from ever marrying, so, my boy, I recommend you take her immediately and hurry to the first church you can find."

"But Erik!" Christine protested. "Who will care for you?"

"The Persian, Christine. The Persian knows a great many folk remedies from the time he traveled with the gypsy side show."

_What?_ When had the Persian had anything to do with the gypsy side show? I turned so rapidly to look at him that I strained a muscle in my neck and involuntarily yelped.

Erik's eyes glittered at me dangerously. "He is sometimes reluctant to admit to his twisted past. Never mind, Daroga." He turned his eyes back to Raoul. "I understand Raoul is the most trustworthy of men, isn't that so, Monsieur? No doubt the Persian fears I shall tell you his secrets. I will not, however. I, too, can be trustworthy, dear Monsieur. But I must caution you, his methods are strange, his ingredients horrific, and the stench quite sickening. It would not be at all appropriate for such a dear young lady as this one to remain and be subjected to the Persian's medicine, even by observation. Please," he said imploringly, "take good care of her for me." He directed his attention to Christine. "And perhaps the two of you will return to visit Erik when he is properly healed?" he suggested.

"Of course!" Christine cried, throwing her arms around Erik, who bit back a yelp of pain when she squeezed him about the shoulders.

"Come, Christine," Raoul said, carefully unwinding her from his rival.

We were all startled by the ringing of an electric bell.

"Oh dear," said Erik. "Who might that be?" Who indeed? It could be almost anyone! Only Jacques, Pierre, and Darius knew of Erik's condition, while the rest knew only that he needed the evening off owing to a family emergency. Likely everyone expected his mother was ill and we were visiting. Any of the boys might take advantage of Erik's presumed absence to use the House on the Lake for himself! I weighed the possibilities. It would be a terrible mess in any event. How would I explain to Raoul Jean-Claude, Charles, Michel, and François roaring into the parlor with liquor on their breath and depravity on their minds? On the other hand, it wouldn't be any easier to explain away Jacques and Pierre bringing morphine and chocolate to appease Erik who can get a bit cranky when he's gone a full day without sweets. I considered not opening the door at all.

"I shall go and tell the siren to open up," Erik said.

"Like hell you will," I told him. "You stay right there." These words were uttered with the authority of the Persian Daroga. Chief of Police, I mean. Not liar. It was my intention to open the door, step outside, inform whichever of our friends was there of what was going on and ask that they come back shortly after Christine and Raoul had left. So shocked was I, however, when I opened the door, that I merely yelped out a name and stood there with the door and my mouth ever open. "Philippe!" I said.

"You!" he responded.

"Philippe?" Raoul uttered behind me.

I heard the scuttle of footsteps across the room.

"Erik?" Christine said.

"Raoul?" Philippe exclaimed.

"Philippe!" Christine trilled.

Where the hell was Erik, I wondered.

"I knew I would find you here with her," Philippe said.

Just then, the House on the Lake went dark.


End file.
